


Soaked In The Blood Of Angels

by whoknows



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Creatures AU, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Vampires, incubus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:01:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 40,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24805123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoknows/pseuds/whoknows
Summary: The boy looksdrugged, caught between a man who’s almost twice his size and a girl who looks like she wouldn’t even break a sweat snapping him in half despite her small stature, eyes closed and mouth open as he pants, arching up between them almost as if he’s trying to escape.Normally, Harry would ignore it and continue on his search for someone to drink from, someone who wouldn’t mind his sharp teeth and rough hands. He’s seen plenty of boys like this one, ones who picked the wrong playmates, and if he stopped to rescue every single one of them he would have died from thirst a long time ago.This one, though. There’s something about this one, the sheen of his bright blue eyes as he blinks slowly, looks around as though he doesn’t know where he is, the weakness of his hands as he tries to push the girl off of him and make his escape.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 66
Kudos: 1085





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! First I have to say thank you to everyone who waited so patiently for this - it's been literal years in the making, but it's finally finished! As always, thank you to Amanda for letting me scream at you about this and all my other fic ideas - you are truly appreciated.
> 
> **Additional Warnings:**  
>  There is a substantial amount of violence in this fic. Mostly related to Louis and Harry (although mostly Louis) physically hurting each other. This includes (but is not limited to) stabbing, fighting, and drugging. If any of that is not your cup of tea, I'd advise you to skip this work.  
> There are pretty typical elements here found in a vampire story - blood sucking, bloodplay, biting etc - that are described graphically. The dub-con is throughout the entire story. There is no discussion of sexual boundaries or kink negotiation, but there is spanking and some bondage.

The boy looks _drugged_ , caught between a man who’s almost twice his size and a girl who looks like she wouldn’t even break a sweat snapping him in half despite her small stature, eyes closed and mouth open as he pants, arching up between them almost as if he’s trying to escape.

Normally, Harry would ignore it and continue on his search for someone to drink from, someone who wouldn’t mind his sharp teeth and rough hands. He’s seen plenty of boys like this one, ones who picked the wrong playmates, and if he stopped to rescue every single one of them he would have died from thirst a long time ago.

This one, though. There’s something about this one, the sheen of his bright blue eyes as he blinks slowly, looks around as though he doesn’t know where he is, the weakness of his hands as he tries to push the girl off of him and make his escape.

He can’t, limbs limp and uncooperative even as he tries to flee, rocking up onto his toes and twisting between the two bodies pinning him there, making soft, distressed sounds in the back of his throat.

Harry’s been standing in the same spot watching them for the past five minutes. The boy’s expression slowly twists into something little and frightened, slurring out words even Harry can’t understand with his supernatural hearing.

The man standing behind the boy, rocking his hips up into his arse, is a were. The girl pinning him in place looks fey, what exactly Harry can’t tell. The only way this night ends for the boy is when he’s broken and spent, all used up. There’s no way they’re letting him go before that, and then once he is he’ll be found nearly lifeless in an abandoned motel room in the morning, littered with bites and bruises that will take weeks to heal. He won’t get any sympathy from his family or his friends, not once they find out where he was when this happened to him. He’s not even a playmate for these two - no, he’s just a hole to be fucked.

Harry’s standing beside him before he’s even made the conscious decision to rescue him, reaching out to drag a finger up the smooth, so far unmarked column of the boy’s throat. “This one isn’t available for play,” Harry tells the couple softly, not straining to make his voice heard above the pounding music of the club.

The man grunts, rocks the boy up onto his toes again with his next thrust against his arse. “Sure looked like he was available for play to me,” he says, slipping his hand around the boy’s front and down to palm over the crotch of the boy’s jeans.

Harry breaks the man’s arm when he pulls it away. “This one isn’t available for play,” he repeats calmly, ignoring the man’s anguished scream as he holds his arm well away from his body. “Or would you like to challenge my claim?”

It must be clear now, who Harry is, because all he gets in response is a fearful nod from both the man and the woman. They bolt the second Harry releases the man’s arm, and the boy starts slumping towards the ground instantly, tears filling his big blue eyes.

It’s likely he thinks Harry’s rescued him. What Harry’s actually done is far, far worse.

This is a long way from a rescue.

“Come with me, little one,” he murmurs, taking the boy’s wrist in a tight grip and leading him along, behind the bar at the back of the room, down a few twisting hallways until he reaches the lift, inconspicuous and hidden. It only takes a few seconds for it to arrive, and when it does Harry pushes the boy inside and hits the button for the penthouse.

What he’s going to do to this boy is worse than whatever the wolf and the fairy had planned for him.

“Do you know who I am?” Harry asks, vaguely curious as he pushes the boy up against the wall, pushing his skin tight shirt up to bare his belly, his nipples.

He’s pretty, this boy, lithe and smooth, a smattering of tattoos on his arms and a mouth made for fucking.

The boy swallows, docile as Harry gathers up his wrists and pins them above his head, goosebumps breaking out on his skin. “Yes,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s not surprised. Boys who look like him often find their way into Harry’s club, searching for the vampire who bites the deepest, fucks the strongest, sends them home with just enough blood left in their bodies to keep them alive and an ache between their thighs.

Boys like him don’t often find their way into Harry’s bed, though.

“Tell me,” Harry orders, nipping at the boy’s bottom lip, not hard enough to cut but hard enough the intent is there, shoving a knee up between the boy’s thighs and forcing him up onto his toes.

The boy gasps, fingers curling in Harry’s grip, inside of his mouth so wet and all Harry’s for the taking, pretty and intoxicating, blood pumping through his veins just asking to be drained, so eager to bend to Harry’s will.

And then, suddenly, Harry’s on the floor with the boy’s foot pressing down against his throat, stake threatening to pierce his heart. “You’re the guy who just fucked up my meal, mate,” the boy says, squeezing his fingers into Harry’s back pocket and extracting his wallet without letting the stake slip an inch. “Look like a rich fucker, you, so I’m gonna relieve you of this. Consider it my compensation for having my dinner ruined.”

The lift dings as the doors open to Harry’s suite, and the second they do the boy’s gone, out like a shot, leaving Harry blinking in his wake, finally understanding why he’d been unable to resist the sweet draw of this particular boy.

Harry’s boots land heavily against the floor as he stalks over to the phone, picks it up and barks orders into it, orders to _find him_ and _don’t let him out of the building_. The boy still has his wallet, but more importantly, the boy had _fooled him_ , and Harry can’t let that stand. Won’t let him leave this building without the rich, fulfilling taste of blood on Harry’s tongue, without hearing the sweet little noises he’ll let out when Harry fucks him, without knowing his name.

_Incubus_.

An hour later, the boy is nowhere to be found. He’s escaped from the building without any of Harry’s men having been able to lay a single finger on him. Harry’s blood burns, boils in his veins. He orders his men to find him and bring him back, barely able to concentrate on anything other than the remnants of that infuriating scent.

Harry uses every connection he has to find out information about the boy, and even then it’s just a name - Louis Tomlinson.

Louis Tomlinson. Harry can work with that.

“Lucas,” Harry begins, folding his hands together on top of the table, slouching in his chair, “Tell me you have something for me.”

It might sound like it’s a question, but it’s really not. It’s been four days since Louis Tomlinson walked into Harry’s club to get himself a nice little feeding, and since then there’s been neither hide nor hair of him to be found. He’s doing an excellent job of concealing himself, and normally Harry would have lost interest by now. Chasing someone who doesn’t want to be found is something Harry only does when they have something of his he wants back, and he’s not interested in the wallet Louis stole. Harry has plenty of wallets, and plenty of money to buy a new one if he needs it. 

Harry can still smell Louis’ blood. It’s like an echo in his nose, a scent he’s unable to shake, sweet and wafting, floating around corners when Harry is least expecting it to. He’s never held onto a blood-scent this long before, and he can’t seem to forget it. There wasn’t a drop of blood spilled that day, at least none that belonged to the boy, and Harry can still smell it. He can almost taste it, that’s how strong the scent is.

It’s been four days, and Harry has had enough of waiting. He pays his people more than enough for them to be providing him with answers, not helpless shrugs and a lack of information.

“He’s been using your credit card,” Lucas says. He’s holding a thin stack of papers, and he slides them across the desk to Harry. “This is a list of his purchases.”

Harry picks them up, flicking through them. Most of the purchases are small. A tea shop purchase here, a grocery store purchase there, the occasional charge from a clothing store or a fast food place. Nothing over a hundred pounds. There doesn’t seem to be a real pattern to them, no repeat stores or small distances to indicate a neighbourhood Louis might be inhabiting.

“How many are there in total?” Harry asks, laying the pages back down on his desk. He hates it when people steal from him, usually makes an example of them, but right now all he feels is the warm thread of amusement. Louis has to know that someone would have noticed the purchases, yet he’s still using the card. It’s almost as though he’s treating this like a game.

Harry likes games. He especially likes games that he’s confident he can win.

“Fifteen,” Lucas answers. “Do you want me to cancel the card?”

Fifteen purchases. Fifteen in four days. This is definitely a game.

“No,” Harry says. “Leave the card alone. I want someone monitoring it around the clock, and when it’s charged again I want to be notified immediately.”

“Yes, boss,” Lucas says, bobbing his head before making his way to the door, shutting it gently behind him.

Harry can still smell the blood. Now it’s just a matter of time before he gets to taste it, as well.

As far as Harry can tell, there’s no real pattern to the purchases. He spends the next two days going over the list again and again, searching for something he’s missed, something that will point him in the right direction. If any of his staff were a little less intimidated by him someone probably would have said something about it, but they’re not, and Liam’s out of town for a few days. There’s no one around to accuse Harry of being obsessed.

And he is obsessed. He can admit that, if only to himself. He wants to drain the boy dry, bleed him out until he begs for his life, leave him hanging on the edge while Harry revels in that blood drunk feeling he so rarely allows himself to have.

It’s a small mercy when Lucas comes back with a location. Harry doesn’t even bother grabbing a jacket as he strides out of the club and to his car.

The coffee shop is dimly lit and quaint, tucked away between two bustling clothing shops. For being in such a busy section of town it’s rather deserted, only a few patrons sitting at tables and one barista behind the counter.

Good. Less people means less witnesses to pay off later.

It’s clear the barista has recognized him from the way she immediately stills, clutching a rag between her hands and eyes darting between him and the phone lying on a counter a few steps away from her, wondering if she needs to be making a call to the police right now, wondering if she has _time_ to make that call.

Harry pays her no mind. There’s a table in the back of the room, almost hidden by a fake potted plant, one that’s empty of any people. But it has a jacket lying neatly over the back of one of its chairs and a laptop sitting open atop the table, a bag tossed carelessly underneath it.

It smells like the boy. In his mouth, Harry’s fangs threaten to pierce his gums, drop. They want to sink into the soft flesh of this boy who’s eluded him for far too long, taste his blood and his sweat and every broken cry he’ll let out as Harry fucks him.

With some difficulty, Harry pushes them back. He moves smoothly through the room, taking the empty seat at the boy’s table. Louis. At Louis’ table. He’s probably gone off to the loo, not expecting to return to the richest vamp in the city sitting at his table.

He should be. Harry’s had his people searching for this boy for the past two weeks, growing more and more frustrated with every failure. It’s long past time they became reacquainted.

Harry can smell that the boy hasn’t left the building, a rich, heady scent invading his nose. If he wanted, Harry could follow that scent and surprise him in the bathroom, push him up against a wall and just _take_ what he wants. He has the element of surprise at his disposal, after all, and he’s better prepared for what this boy is capable of now.

He doesn’t. Instead, he drags Louis’ bag towards him and goes through it methodically, observing the heavy black AmEx sitting nearly in his worn out wallet - _Harry’s_ heavy black AmEx - a few books, a laptop charger, a t-shirt that smells as though it’s been worn, a half empty package of cigarettes and a couple lighters. Carefully, Harry extracts the shirt, folding it up neatly and tucking it into the inner pocket of his jacket. Leaves the credit card where it is.

A sharp intake of breath lets him know Louis has returned. Slowly, Harry looks up, making no effort to conceal the fact that he’s been going through his bag. This boy has taken from him and Harry plans on receiving his refund in full.

“Don’t know whether to be more surprised that it took you so long to find me or that you were smart enough to be able to do it in the first place,” Louis says, no hint of false bravado in his voice at all. He takes his seat at the table, folding his arms across his chest.

Good. If Harry wanted a plaything who would bend at a flick of his finger he could have just gone down into his club and taken his pick. That’s not what he wants.

“You’ve been buying yourself things with my credit card,” Harry says, tapping Louis’ wallet pointedly. “Have you not realized by now who I am?”

Louis snorts, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, I know who are you,” he says easily. “I know you’re a bloke who’s apparently too dumb to cancel a credit card after it’s been stolen and thinks just because he’s rich he can have whatever he wants. That sound about right?”

Harry leans forward, unable to resist following that sweet little scent even though it’s only moved a few inches away. It’s been too long since he’s smelled it. “That’s only about half right,” he says, lifting Louis’ bag calmly and putting it back underneath the table. Blood may be spilled in this tiny little cafe and he’s loathe to spill it on the things that carry the scent of unafraid little incubi who don’t know what’s good for them. “You’ve forgotten the more important half, though.”

Louis watches him with sharp eyes. “What’s that, then?”

“The vampire half,” Harry says, and flips the table out from between them, lunging forward in the same move. Louis brings his hands up to block, but he’s not quite fast enough, not quite _strong enough_ , and he slams back against the brick wall with the full weight of Harry’s body against him. Pinning him.

The urge to bite comes back with a vengeance, fangs pricking Harry’s own inner lip. He knows his eyes must have gone dark, knows there must be a commotion in the cafe behind them, but all he can smell is the sweet thunder of Louis’ blood rushing through his veins.

An incubus shouldn’t smell this good. Not to a vampire.

“The half that built his empire on his strength and determination alone,” Harry continues, speaking through a mouthful of fangs, face practically pressed into Louis’ throat. Louis’ hands are tight on Harry’s back but he’s still, unmoving. Not trying to get away.

Good. That’s good. If he ran Harry would _chase_.

“Are you trying to _impress_ me, Mr. Styles?” Louis asks silkily, threat of violence present in his voice. When Harry looks up he still looks the same as he did when he first walked out of the loo, hair messy and clothes worn and soft. No allure to be seen. “I’ll have you know I’m not impressed by money or fame. You don’t impress me. Nor do you scare me.”

That’s not entirely true. Harry can hear the best of Louis’ heart in his chest, frantic and fast. He may not be scared _of_ Harry but he is scared of his own reaction to Harry, the way his body wants him to go limp and let Harry _take_.

Harry can smell it.

“I know,” Harry says, and he’s not sure which one of them moves first, but it doesn’t matter because they’re kissing. Wet and deep and thrilling, and Harry’s doing more taking than he should be, holding Louis’ face still between his hands and tipping him up so he can just go to town on his mouth, tongue plundering every inch of it. Harry’s fangs are everywhere, pricking against his own tongue, his own cheeks, his own lips, but never Louis’. Louis’ tongue skates over them, shy and darting, so soft underneath Harry’s hands, yielding.

Behind them, something crashes. Harry pays it no mind, grinding his hips forward against Louis’ belly, cock already fully hard. He’ll bite Louis as he fucks him, hold him right up against this wall and take him until Louis is screaming with it, until the only thing he can remember is Harry’s name, until the only thing he smells like _is_ Harry, until he’s too dazed to – 

Suddenly, there’s a searing pain in Harry’s side. Harry’s fingers are numb as they slip off Louis’ body, eyes wide as he stumbles backwards, falls over a discarded chair and lands on his back, blinking heavily up at the ceiling. He fumbles his fingers over the pain in his side, hissing as they come into contact with something that immediately makes them sting.

It’s a silver knife. Louis has just stabbed him with a silver knife.

Glass crunches underneath Louis’ shoes as he retrieves his items from the table and then drops to his knees at Harry’s side, leaning over him with a wicked little smile on his face.

“I would tell you not to call, but,” he shrugs, shoulders moving elegantly underneath his shirt.

Harry manages to curl weak fingers around Louis’ wrist. “Don’t leave me here like this.”

Louis’ smile gets even sharper. “Thought you were a big bad vampire?” he mocks, bending down and pressing his sweet little mouth against Harry’s, slick tongue asking Harry’s to come out and play. It’s a kiss that lasts a full minute, Harry’s blood thundering through his body and fangs begging to prick Louis’ skin.

Then he pulls away. “Until we meet again, Mr. Styles,” he murmurs, patting Harry’s chest over his jacket. “You can keep the shirt.”

Then he’s gone, scent of him drifting through the wind like a trail Harry can’t follow. It takes no less than five minutes for Harry to be able to pull the knife out of his side, wound already beginning to heal, but it’s too late. Louis is gone.

That’s okay, though, because now - 

Now Harry has a taste for him.

It takes another nine days of searching before Harry finds him again. And when he does - when he does, it’s in a club on the other side of the city, looking for his next meal. The drugged weakness of the first time they met is nowhere in sight, replaced by a coy, alluring little smile and a nearly see through shirt.

The blood running through Harry’s veins isn’t his own, but it pulses, thunders like it is anyway, demanding that he rip Louis away from his victims, prevent him from feeding off these people.

Harry’s always been inclined to listen to his instincts. He starts across the room, footsteps heavy and stalking, gaze focused on Louis and the girls at his side. Doesn’t care how loud he’s being, how obvious, because this is his town and this is going to be his boy and he doesn’t care what it takes to make that happen.

If Louis notices his approach, he makes no indication of it. He’s still sitting there chatting the girls up, dragging his finger through a pool of condensation on the bar, head tipped as he flirts. Harry doesn’t stop until he’s got his chest pressed to Louis’ back, signaling the bartender.

“Close out his tab, please,” he says, laying a card down on the counter. A different card than the one he normally uses because Louis still has that one, although he hasn’t made any more purchases on it yet.

Maybe he thinks leaving the card alone will get Harry to leave him alone in turn. If that’s the case he’s really got another thing coming.

One of the girls is watching him with a gleam in her eye. Harry ignores her, laying his hand over Louis’ wrist. “Time to go,” he murmurs into Louis’ ear, laying every bit of influence he has into his voice. It’s nowhere near the level of Louis’ allure but it’ll have to do. Harry wants to get out of here, take Louis back to his club, maybe pin him against the wall of the lift and get his revenge by sampling his blood.

What Harry’s got planned is going to take a lot longer than a single lift ride.

Louis tips his head back against Harry’s chest, looking up at him. He hasn’t lost that coy glamour, lashes soft and fringed as he blinks. “But I’m not finished getting to know my friends,” he says softly, arching his back so the words come out closer to Harry’s ear. Turns his hand so he can play with Harry’s fingers, lacing his own through them.

Harry’s undead heart tries to beat a little faster. “Too bad,” he says just as softly, not sure of what exactly is going on. It doesn’t matter, though. He intends to win no matter what - twice is enough for him to have picked up on Louis’ tricks. There isn’t going to be a third time.

“I’m Sarah,” one of the girls says suddenly, the one who’s been ogling him, sticking her hand right in front of Harry’s face. “And you are?”

Harry is a vampire who’s about to enjoy the sweetest meal he’s ever had, that’s who he is. He keeps ignoring her, turning Louis’ stool around, distracted for a minute by the flutter of Louis’ pulse in his throat.

Only for a minute. Then the sickeningly sweet smell that’s been invading Harry’s senses since he reached the bar becomes overwhelming. Overwhelming and obvious.

He pulls back a bit, spots a drink on the counter at Louis’ elbow. Picks it up, sniffs at it, recognizing the scent. “Louis, is this yours?” he demands, setting the glass back down on the bar with a thud. Some of the liquid sloshes out over the rim. Harry doesn’t even notice, tipping Louis’ head back with both hands and trying to get a look at his pupils, see if they’re dilated.

“Yeah,” Louis answers dreamily, tangling his fingers in Harry’s shirt and pulling him forwards, between his thighs. “Sarah bought it for me, isn’t that so nice?”

No, it’s not nice. It’s not nice because this drink has been _drugged_ , actually, literally dosed with drugs. Harry only knows what it is due to his enhanced sense of smell and his time spent running a club. This drink has definitely been laced and it’s only got about a fourth left. 

Harry turns his attention back to the pair of girls still standing there like they’re expecting to have a foursome. “Get out,” he says sharply, letting his fangs drop past his gums warningly. “If I ever see you again you’re going to regret ever meeting us in the first place, you got that?”

The girls pale a little but don’t loose any of their courage, shooting nearly identical smirks in Louis’ direction as they melt away into the crowd. When he’s sure they’re gone Harry turns his attention back to Louis, holding him steady on the stool with an arm around his shoulders.

“We have to get you out of here,” he says, helping Louis slide off the stool. His face feels warm when Harry touches it, cheeks flushed and pink, eyes glazed and unfocused. Together, they stumble through the crowd towards the door, Harry supporting most of Louis’ weight along the way. It takes a couple of minutes to make it into the crisp night air, and when they do Harry straightens up, holds Louis against his side as he scans the street for the car.

It’s just around the corner. Harry keeps Louis’ weight on him as they make their way in that direction slowly, every step painstaking. He doesn’t bother looking over his shoulder to make sure they aren’t being followed - he trusts his senses.

They reach the corner of an alley. Louis lists sideways abruptly, nearly falling to the pavement. Harry grabs for him instinctively, presses him up against the wall so he doesn’t fall again.

“Louis,” he says sharply, snapping his fingers in front of Louis’ eyes, checking his reaction. “Are you okay?”

“’m horny,” Louis breathes, arching his hips up, pressing them against Harry’s. It’s a sudden movement, a shocking one.

Harry pins him still, not thinking about it. “You were drugged.”

“Mm, yeah,” Louis murmurs, hooking his arms around Harry’s neck and all but hanging off him, lips pressing against Harry’s cheek, his jaw. “You wanna fuck?”

All the blood in Harry’s body surges directly to his cock. His fangs pierce his gums, dropping into his mouth fast and sharp, the scent of Louis’ blood getting richer, even more intoxicating than before. He wants to drink, bleed Louis until he’s weak and barely coherent, hanging off Harry’s neck, malleable and accepting of whatever Harry wants to do to him.

Louis kisses him properly, lips moving against Harry’s, slick little tongue darting out, nibbling at Harry’s bottom lip. The only thing Harry can do is kiss back, half trying not to let his fangs get in the way, half wishing that they would. Just a nick, a little wound, a little blood. That’s all. Just a little.

“Mm,” Louis sighs, rubbing himself wantonly against Harry’s crotch, strong and lithe, pulling away a bit. “You really know nothing about incubi, do you?”

Harry blinks, dazed. Louis continues, “Roofies don’t have any effect on us.”

Before Harry can process that statement, Louis shoves him, foot extended in a way that has Harry flying right over it, falling to the ground faster than he can catch himself. It only takes a second for him to get back to his feet and turn around, but in that second Louis has disappeared.

Again.

By the time Harry makes it back to his suite, the immediate flash of anger he’d felt at Louis getting the better of him again has mostly faded, leaving him much calmer, much more rational. Mostly, he feels hungry and a little irritated that his meal plan fell through. He can’t help but feel a sense of grudging admiration at Louis’ ability to escape a dangerous situation, and for the first time he’s starting to think that they might be evenly matched. Harry’s long since gotten used to being the most powerful person in the room, and now Louis has shown up and thrown that off.

Clearly it’s time to change tactics. Harry doesn’t like losing, and he likes losing multiple times in a row even less. He reaches out and dials a phone number, hitting the speaker button.

“Lucas,” he says, not even waiting for Lucas to acknowledge that he’s picked up, “Bring me research on incubi. The real stuff, not the stuff humans consume hoping to get some kind of thrill out of it.”

He hangs up without waiting for Lucas to answer, leaning back in his chair and folding his fingers together. It’s definitely time for a chance of tactics. Harry is done losing.

The next night, Harry sits in the VIP section of the club, overlooking the dance floor, and surveys the mass of bodies beneath him. Normally he would be in his office completing paperwork, or meeting with some of the more important guests, but there’s this itch under his skin that’s keeping him from concentrating.

The music is loud, pulsating. It’s not Harry’s first choice when it comes to personal preference, but it draws in the crowds, keeps people buying drinks, gets revenue flowing. It’s a decent enough distraction, especially considering that Harry hasn’t slept in twenty-four hours. Research seemed more important than sleep, and he doesn’t regret his decision.

There was a lot of information in the lore. Some of it useless, some of it obviously incorrect, and only a little of it anything he could actually use. There’s more work to be done before Harry will have a plan of attack ready, but it’s enough for now. His eyes are exhausted from the amount of time he spent reading.

A roar goes up in the crowd as the song changes to something Harry can’t identify, something with a fast beat and a terrible singer. He takes a sip of his drink, leaning back against the sofa, and watches the crowd for anyone who seems interesting. He hasn’t eaten in a few days, long enough that he’ll have to soon, whether he likes it or not.

He’s alone in the VIP booth. It would be easy to bring someone in here with him, anyone, and he’s had plenty of offers, even just from tonight. He thought about it, bringing someone in here, even just to entertain him, but hadn’t been able to muster up the enthusiasm.

The DJ plays on. Harry nurses his drink, gazing unseeingly down at the crowd in his club, and it takes him a few minutes to smell it. Or maybe it’s that it takes him a few minutes to recognize what it is he’s smelling, too many other scents mixing in with it, and when he does it’s already too late to do anything about it.

“I have four knives within easy reach,” Louis informs him calmly. “Just in case you’re thinking about doing anything stupid.”

He’s standing just outside Harry’s booth, far enough away that Harry would have to stand up and lunge for him in order to get a hand on him, close enough that he would have had to get past four of Harry’s bouncers between the dance floor and here.

Harry’s reluctantly impressed. He’ll have to beef up the training protocol for the security team. Won’t do to let just anyone be wandering around in places they shouldn’t be.

“Louis,” Harry says, setting his glass down on the table in front of him. “You – ”

“I want to make a truce,” Louis says, interrupting him before Harry can say any of the things going through his head. “You’ve proven your ability to track me or have me tracked, and I have better things to be doing with my time than trying to avoid you.”

It’s blunt, perfectly to the point. Harry refrains from arching an eyebrow in response. “A truce,” he repeats thoughtfully. “And what exactly is in it for me in this truce? The way I see it, I have more to gain by ignoring your truce altogether.”

By more to gain, he means that he intends to have Louis in every way possible before he even considers letting him go. Blood and sweat and tears and sex but especially the blood. It’s calling to him now, sweet and supple, rushing through veins that are just begging to be opened by Harry’s fangs.

He wonders whether it would be the first time Louis let a vampire taste him. He has an inkling that it would be, that all the other times Louis’ blood has spilled haven’t been into a waiting mouth.

“This is my home,” Louis says. He’s still standing there, muscles tense and ready to move should Harry so much as twitch, obvious with his posture.

“This is my city,” Harry counters. It’s true – he’s made a name for himself here the likes of which have never been seen before. Politicians should consider themselves lucky that he has no interest in running this city the legal way.

Defiantly, Louis draws his shoulders up. “I have as much of a claim to these hunting grounds as you do,” he says, the power of his belief holding true in his voice. “All I want is to be left alone so I can feed in peace. I won’t make the mistake of stepping foot into your club again.”

If he thinks that it’s the hunting grounds Harry wants, he’s sorely mistaken. Harry’s going to have everything he has coming to him, one way or another.

“I’ll tell you what,” Harry says, crossing his ankle over his knee and leaning back against the sofa again, forcing himself to relax, at least for the moment. If Louis runs he probably won’t be able to stop himself from chasing, but for now he can play this game. 

For now.

“If you can walk away after five minutes alone with me, here in this booth, without giving in for even a second, I’ll honour your truce,” Harry continues. “Stop using my resources to track you down, stop doing whatever it is you’re telling yourself you have no interest in. How does that sound?”

“Five minutes?” Louis repeats. “That’s it?”

He sounds skeptical. Harry can’t blame him – he sees nothing wrong with cheating at a game here and there, tipping the odds in his favour, and this is a game he absolutely intends to cheat at.

“Five minutes,” Harry affirms. “Granted, one of the stipulations will be that you have to sit with me, but five minutes. That’s it.”

Louis considers it, arms crossed over his chest as he thinks. After a few seconds, he moves to sit down on the very edge of the couch, as far away from Harry he can get while still sitting.

“Fine,” he says, arms still crossed over his chest. “Five more minutes before you’ll be out of my life entirely. I can deal with that.”

Harry still has a lot more research to do before he will feel like his knowledge on incubi is anything close to satisfactory, and a lot of the stuff he’s already read equates to the content in a trashy romance novel for all the good it’ll do, but there are a few things that stood out. A few things that seemed as though they could be accurate. One of them is that incubi feed on sex, of course, but more than that they also feed on sexual desire. It won’t sustain them in the same way a real sexual encounter will, but they’re susceptible to it.

“So this is your home, then?” Harry asks, letting every ounce of lust he has flow free, channeling it in Louis’ direction, thinking about marking, about biting, about fucking, about blood flowing, appeasing the ache in his fangs at the same time as the one in his cock.

Louis blinks. It’s a slow, heavy blink, one that’s more like a sweeping of his eyelashes across his cheeks than anything else. “I’m not dumb enough to give you any of my information,” he says, a flush climbing up his cheeks as he says the words. “You’re worse than a telemarketing scam, you are.”

Harry raises his hands, appeasing. “My apologies,” he murmurs, watching the spread of that flush, enticing and pretty. “Just trying to make conversation.” Doesn’t stop the flow of filthy things he would do to Louis given half a chance from surging through his brain.

“Don’t,” Louis says, half a snarl, but it’s affecting him. Harry’s affecting him.

He can tell. 

“I’m not doing anything,” Harry says, still holding his hands up. Leaves them in the air for a few more seconds before allowing them to drop. Louis doesn’t respond, and they sit in silence for a few more seconds.

Harry is the one to break it. “I wasn’t going to do anything when I saw you with the werewolf and the fairy that first night, you know. When a situation like that is happening in my club I let security deal with it. There’s no sense in getting myself involved.”

“Yeah, I tend to have that affect on people,” Louis says, biting. “Incubus and all.”

“It wasn’t that,” Harry says. He doesn’t have to stop to consider it. “How many vampires have you been close to before?”

It’s only logical to assume that the answer is zero. Vampires and incubi have never gotten along, and they definitely don’t tend to seek each other out when they do happen to meet. This is somewhat of an anomaly. 

“Tons,” Louis says. “You just happen to be the only one I don’t like.”

A part of Harry bristles, and it’s not due to Louis saying he doesn’t like him. No, it’s because of Louis claiming that he’s known a lot of vampires in his life, which is a lie. Must be a lie.

“The first thing I notice about anyone is the scent of their blood,” Harry says, choosing to ignore Louis’ comment for now. “Some people’s smells stronger than others, but the scent usually fades into the background the longer a vampire has spent with them. When there’s a lot of people in a place, like there was on the floor that night, the smell of blood tends to get congealed, scents all mingling together. It’s not a bad smell, exactly – ”

“Are you just trying to disgust me?” Louis interrupts. “I’m not a vampire, I don’t give a shit how good blood smells to you.”

Harry breathes in evenly and continues, “I could smell you all the way across the room.”

“So what?” Louis demands. “Am I supposed to be impressed by your superior nose or something? I _don’t care_.”

“I could smell your blood rushing through your veins before I even came into the club,” Harry says. He has to curl his fingers into his palms at the memory. “Didn’t realize what it was at first, and before I even knew it I was watching you flirt with those idiots, and I could practically taste your heartbeat.”

He can still practically taste Louis’ heartbeat, right now, sitting on this couch.

“You’re still not telling me anything I should care about,” Louis says, but he’s sitting up tense in his seat, looks like he’s ready to flee at any seconds.

Christ, Harry half _wants_ him to flee. Wants to chase Louis through the dark streets, down alleys and around corners until he catches up to him, pins him against a wall and sinks his fangs into Louis’ jugular, letting blood spill hot and thick onto his tongue.

“You should care,” Harry says slowly, deliberately enunciating his words because his fangs have started to prick through his gums, “because I can’t stop thinking about the scent of your blood, and it’s not going to take much longer before I can hear the phantom echo of your heart in my head, and that means that soon I’ll be able to track you no matter how hard you try to run from me.”

It’s not exactly true. It’s going to take more than a few meetings to be able to track Louis by his heartbeat, but it is something that Harry could do, given enough time.

Louis stares at him. His eyes are wide and blue, and he’s not wearing an allure, leaving him entirely himself, and that was a mistake if he came here to try to get Harry to leave him alone.

The tension in the air between them is heavy. For a second, Louis doesn’t move, doesn’t respond, just staring at Harry, and then his tongue darts out to swipe his bottom lip, and then, somehow, he’s in Harry’s lap and they’re kissing.

Harry has no idea how they got here. That doesn’t matter, though. His hands surge up to grip Louis’ arse, pulling him down properly, and he kisses back with every ounce of heat and passion he’s felt about Louis since the moment he laid eyes on him.

Fire crackles between them. The kiss is deep and wet, and Harry tries to take control of it, tries to bite at Louis’ tongue, suck at it, only to get evaded every time he thinks he’s won. In his trousers, his cock throbs, trapped under Louis’ arse, and the thing he wants most in the world is to get inside Louis.

Sweat trickles down the line of Louis’ throat. Abruptly, Harry realizes that he knows that because he’s gripping Louis by it, holding him in place with a hand circling his neck, ensuring that he can’t break away from the kiss without a struggle. His other hand is still clutching Louis’ arse, firm and meaty in his palm, and Harry’s fangs are definitely coming out to play now, dropped down all the way into his mouth. Louis doesn’t seem to mind, tongue slipping around them to meet Harry’s, seemingly uncaring of whether he pricks himself in the process, and this is it. This is how Harry wins, he’s sure of it. He can feel it in his bones.

Something starts chirping. Harry pays it no attention, curving his fingers against Louis’ arse, groping him even more obscenely, and he’s about to stand up, lift Louis with him, take him up to Harry’s flat and get him naked on the bed.

Louis does take note of the chirping, though, leaning back so far he nearly falls out of Harry’s lap, turning it into a roll at the last second. Harry is still caught up in a haze of arousal. His reaction time isn’t nearly fast enough to stop Louis from swiping the phone laying on the table, apparently the source of the noise, and taking off through the crowd.

Harry doesn’t bother chasing him, leaning back and pressing two fingers against his kiss swollen mouth. He doesn’t feel the need to chase after Louis, not right now, not as he looks down at the wallet he’s holding between his fingers. He’s got a feeling that the information he’s going to be able to get from the wallet is going to be a much better use of his time than chasing Louis. At least for now.

The wallet holds all the things a typical wallet does. There’s a couple of credit cards, some cash, a few pieces of I.D. There’s no pictures, nothing to shed any more light on Louis’ life.

What there is, though, is an address. It’s the same on every piece of I.D. in the wallet, and Harry traces the edge of his thumbnail over the letters almost obsessively.

Finally.

The house is an average suburban home, on the outskirts of the city. It stands in a row of identical houses, on a quiet street, unassuming and non-descript. Nothing about it gives an indication that an incubus lives in it.

Harry sits in his car, parked a little way down the street, engine turned off, contemplating it. He doesn’t have a plan, exactly, drove out here in the middle of the day, and now he’s just sitting here, looking at it. There’s every possibility that Louis is in the house right now.

The lack of plan itches under Harry’s skin a bit. He came in the middle of the day in case Louis was expecting him, and the sun is high in the sky, irritatingly bright, making it hard to think. He could get out of the car and stride up to the house, knock on the door, and then take it from there, but there’s no telling who else could be in the house. If Louis lives with other people or alone, if he has people visiting, if he’s even home right now. The possibilities are too many to account for.

So for now, Harry waits. There doesn’t seem to be any movement in the house, at least none that’s visible. He didn’t plan on having a stakeout, but it seems like that’s the best course of action right now.

Harry’s money has ensured that his car is comfortable. He settles back into his seat, eyes still fixed on the house, preparing himself for a lengthy wait.

The wait doesn’t turn out to be anywhere near as lengthy as Harry thought. The passenger side door opens abruptly, and before Harry can react someone is sliding in.

“Is this payback?” Louis demands immediately. “I steal your wallet so you steal mine in return? Sorry to break this to you, arsehole, but you’re a lot richer than I am. If you’re looking to regain what I took from you that wallet isn’t going to cut it.”

“This is me following through on my promises,” Harry says. Louis had come from behind the car, not from the house. “If you didn’t want me to track you here you shouldn’t have kissed me last time.”

Louis glares at him. Harry’s cock is starting to take an interest in the expression. “That was a mistake.”

It hadn’t felt like a mistake. It had felt like Louis was allowing himself to do something he really wanted to do.

“It didn’t feel like a mistake,” Harry says. His fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and grab Louis by the throat, haul him into Harry’s lap and kiss him boneless.

“It was,” Louis says firmly. “And it doesn’t matter anyway, this isn’t my house.”

Harry blinks. “What?”

“You think I’m stupid enough to list my real address on something that people like you can steal from me?” Louis asks, raising an eyebrow. “Give me back my wallet.”

He has a fake address on what must be a fake I.D. Harry can’t help but marvel at the ingenuity. The wallet is sitting in his back pocket, trapped between his arse and the seat, safe from slippery fingers.

“I don’t have it.”

It’s not a particularly good lie. Harry doesn’t care.

Louis narrows his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “So where is it then, if you don’t have it?”

“Tell you what,” Harry says thoughtfully. “You come over here and let me put my teeth in your throat and I’ll give it back to you.”

“I should just put a stake through you and be done with it,” Louis mutters. He sinks back against the seat, wetting his bottom lip. Harry watches, unblinking.

“You could try,” he offers. The ensuing struggle would be worth it if he got to feel Louis’ body against his again, no matter how briefly.

“Don’t tempt me,” Louis mutters. “Look, I’m not going to let you bite me. Or sleep with you. Why don’t we both just lick our wounds a bit and go our separate ways? I’ll even leave the city if that’s what you want.”

That’s the last thing Harry wants. He didn’t chase Louis all this way for either of them to give up so easily.

“How about a kiss?” Harry counters. His gaze slides down Louis’ body, to where his thighs are splayed apart on the seat, clad in denim and irritatingly covered. “Prove to me that the last one was a mistake.”

Louis makes a sort, derisive noise. It draws Harry’s attention back up to his face, where his mouth is soft and pink, demanding to be bruised a darker colour. “Absolutely not.”

A kiss would be the perfect incentive for Harry to leave without pushing his luck any further. Just one, just long enough to map out the sweet, heated insides of Louis’ mouth, begin to memorize how he tastes.

“Sunlight really does make you vamps slow, huh,” Louis says to himself. He fishes in his jacket pocket for a second before pulling his hand out. A pair of handcuffs dangle from his fingertips, glinting in the light.

The silver of them doesn’t burn, not from this distance, but Harry recognizes the feeling all the same. He blinks at them once before returning his gaze to Louis’ face. Louis could have had them on him before Harry realized what he was doing. He’s proven several times already that he’s capable of getting the upper hand much more quickly than Harry expects. Harry doesn’t understand why he’s just sitting there holding them.

“Put them on. Through the steering wheel.”

“What do I get if I do?” Harry asks.

Louis rolls his eyes. “You get the benefit of me not stabbing you again.” He shakes the cuffs in Harry’s direction.

“Last time you stabbed me you also kissed me as a distraction,” Harry points out. “I’m happy to take the stabbing if it means I also get your mouth for a minute.”

“You’re treading on real thin ice here, mate,” Louis says. “I’m about five seconds away from putting a knife in your thigh.”

He says it firmly, with conviction. Harry believes him.

Harry also isn’t afraid of getting a little bit stabbed. He’s been sitting in the sunlight for longer than he has in years, and it’s making him a little woozy. Not quite disoriented, but slow to react. Right now, he wouldn’t be able to stop Louis from making good on his threat, no matter how slowly he went about it.

“Tell me something about yourself, then,” Harry says. “Something true. Just one true thing about yourself and I’ll put the cuffs on willingly.”

The sunlight must also be responsible for his willingness to compromise right now. Amenable is the last word he’d use to describe himself, yet here is, sitting in this car without even a token attempt at getting a single finger on Louis. It’s not like him at all.

Louis hesitates long enough that Harry looks over at him, catching the expression on his face. It’s almost floundering, as though this wasn’t something he expected.

“Okay,” he says, tongue darting out to swipe at his bottom lip. Harry has the faint urge to reach over and make a grab for his chin, chase his tongue with a few fingers. See if he’d suck, given the chance. “My favourite food is pizza.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “You really think that’s going to get me to put the cuffs on?”

A flash of a smile crosses Louis’ face, sweet and enticing. “Okay,” he repeats, conceding this time. “Why don’t you ask me something, then? You’ll be able to tell if I’m lying.”

With nearly anyone else, this would be true. A slight uptick in a heartbeat, the rush of blood through veins, the scent of sweat in the air are all indications someone might be lying. There’s other reasons for these things, of course, but Harry’s gotten pretty good at telling when someone is lying over the years. Everything he knows about Louis tells him that it’s never going to be that easy with him.

Still, this presents an opportunity Harry is loathe to miss out on. He licks his own lips, mirroring Louis’ movement, and asks, “What are you scared of?”

Immediately, Louis bristles. “Not of you, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he shoots back.

That hadn’t actually been what Harry had meant. “I’m scared of pigeons,” he says matter-of-factly, watching Louis blink slowly. “And the unexplored parts of the ocean. Don’t trust that shit.”

Louis blinks some more, eyelashes sweeping across his cheeks. Harry nearly reaches out to run his thumb across those cheekbones, only stopping himself at the last second. Louis looks down at Harry’s hand, a frown already starting to form on his face, but he’s gentle as he pushes it down.

“Taking too much,” he says quietly. He doesn’t expand on the statement, but Harry doesn’t need him to.

For a few moments, they sit there in silence, looking at each other. The air between them feels soft, almost dreamy. Harry could sit here all day, looking at Louis’ face, the sheer beauty of him. He knows, deep in his gut, that none of what he’s feeling has anything to do with any incubi glamour. They could be good together, Harry’s sure of it. Sure enough that he’s willing to risk pretty much everything to get a shot at it.

“I’m going to go now,” Louis says. He doesn’t raise his voice any, so that quiet air between them still lingers, holding on. “You’re gonna put them on properly, yeah? No tricks?”

The handcuffs are lying on the console between them. Harry looks down at them, and as much as he doesn’t want to put them on he knows he’s going to. Just for this boy.

“I’m not the one running a scheme right now, sweetheart,” Harry says, amused. He takes the handcuffs and snaps them onto his wrists, being sure to thread them through the steering wheel like Louis demanded earlier.

That flash of a smile Louis showed him earlier brightens, turns real. “Scheme, huh,” he echoes thoughtfully. He slides his fingers across Harry’s wrists to check that the cuffs are on tightly, leaning in so close he’s all Harry can smell. There’s no angle Harry can bite him at without getting a mouthful of hair, but even if there were Harry wouldn’t do it. It’s been a long time since he’s bitten anyone without their consent, back when he was first turned and still feral from it, but he’s never felt so strongly about wanting someone to want it. Needing it, even.

He’s not going to bite Louis until he begs him for it. It’s a strange realization to have.

“It’s not a scheme,” Louis says, putting his hands overtop of Harry’s, pressing them into the wheel slightly. The thump of his heart is strong and steady, not nearly as fast as someone who’s feeling any fear. It’s faster than the average person walking around on the street right now, though, and Harry knows the cause of it.

Desire.

“You’re giving vampires a bad name by stalking me, you know,” Louis continues conversationally. Harry can’t stop staring at his hands, the slightness of his wrists, how fragile they seem. “Making it seem like every bad horror movie trope is actually true.”

“Maybe there’s just some kernel of truth to the myths,” Harry suggests. Louis hasn’t pulled away, tantalizing Harry with the scent of his blood humming through his veins.

“Maybe,” Louis murmurs, turning his head so his lips ghost across Harry’s cheek, barely there at all. Harry leans into the touch, already missing it before it’s even gone. “See you around, Harry Styles.”

As quickly as he’d slid into the car, he’s out of it. Harry watches him walk away with sunshine beating down on his back, until he disappears from sight around a bend in the road.

An hour later, Harry’s awoken from a light doze by the rap of Lucas’ knuckles against his window. His skin has blistered slightly from the silver, red and irritated as Lucas unlocks the cuffs. Louis hasn’t left anything behind this time, but he’d called Harry’s club so they would know where he was. People who don’t feel _something_ don’t do things like that.

The taste of validation in Harry’s mouth is almost as sweet as Louis’ blood would be.

Harry doesn’t realize there’s someone in the room with him at first. He walks in, letting the door slam closed behind him, emptying the contents of his pockets onto a table as he passes it. Nothing is missing, nothing has been moved, and he doesn’t notice that anything is off until he’s standing barefoot in the kitchen, looking into the fridge for a snack.

He doesn’t realize it until the press of cold silver against the back of his neck has started sizzling. His first instinct is to jerk forward, slam his body to the side and disarm his assailant. 

Resisting that instinct is hard. Harry manages, staying very still, hands open and loose at his sides. He should have known that he wasn’t alone, should have smelled the blood rushing through veins before he even opened the door.

Louis is here.

“That’s a fancy trick you’ve got there,” Harry says. “It come to you naturally or did you pick it up just for me?”

Not having smelled Louis, the deep, rich scent of his blood, a scent Harry has committed to memory, until Louis already had the upper hand can only mean one thing. Louis has masked his scent somehow. Every other time, Harry has smelled him too late, but he’d smelled him. This already feels different than all those other times.

The silver presses into his skin harder. Harry resists the urge to lean forward, escape it. It’s only an annoying ache right now, nothing to be concerned about, but it’s not a good feeling. “It’s amazing what you can get for a few euros when the local witches don’t hate you,” Louis says, and it’s not that Harry expected anything different – none of the lore he’s read has given any indication that incubi have abilities that lean towards the magical side – but it still feels like he’s won something with the admission. No matter how unwillingly it might have been given.

Harry risks turning his head a bit to look over his shoulder. “So is this a social call or did you come here for a reason?”

The fridge is still open, letting all the cold air out into the room, and if it doesn’t get closed soon the blood bags are going to spoil.

The silver on the back of his neck is abruptly removed. Harry turns around, still moving slowly, closing the fridge in the process. He folds his arms across his chest and leans back against it, waiting.

“I came to return your credit card,” Louis says. The piece of silver is a fork, one that looks suspiciously like it’s been pulled out of Harry’s own cutlery drawer. Harry entertains the thought of making a move regardless. Louis has proven, time and time again, that he is more than capable of getting the better of Harry. He’s faster and willing to hurt Harry if he needs to get away, and that has worked well for him in the past.

It’s only a fork, though. The silver isn’t pure, or else Harry wouldn’t have it in his cutlery drawer, and being stabbed by it probably wouldn’t hurt that much.

He doesn’t move from his position. “And?”

“And now we’re done,” Louis says. He flings the card in Harry’s direction, fork still held in a good position to impale Harry should he move. 

Harry doesn’t move to catch the card, letting it fall gracelessly to the floor. “You think that because you decided to return my credit card I’m going to just let you go?” 

He doesn’t plan on letting go for the foreseeable future. Louis must recognize that on his face, because he tips his chin up, trying to make himself seem bigger, broader. “That’s not what I think, that’s the way it’s going to _be_.”

“Sweetheart,” Harry murmurs, kicking a foot up and resting it against the fridge behind him, “What about me makes you think that I’m going to let you go without a fight?”

A big, dramatic, public fight if necessary. Louis could flee to Tahiti and Harry would still chase after him, he’s so set on following this thread between them. He’s going to find out where it leads even if it kills him in the process.

More. Kills him more.

“Do I look like I’m joking to you?” Louis demands, fork swaying as he spreads his arms out, trying to make his point. “You have all your shit back, now you’re going to leave me alone. This isn’t a negotiation.” 

Louis told him to look, so Harry looks. Louis doesn’t look like he’s joking, but more importantly than that, he doesn’t look like he’s _sure_. He doesn’t look like he knows what he wants.

All Harry wants is him. He’s made no secret of that. And he thinks that the determination Louis has, the front he puts up about the two of them being incompatible, is weakening with every second they spent in each other’s company.

He pushes himself off the fridge, taking a few meandering steps in Louis’ direction, slow enough that Louis could make a run for it if he wanted to, until they’re standing about two feet apart.

Louis raises the fork again, like that’s going to convince Harry to stay back. Harry laughs softly, can’t help it, and curls his fingers around Louis’ wrist, tugging him closer. “If you want to stab me with that I’m not going to stop you,” he whispers, low, just between the two of them.

“You mean you’re not going to _try_ to stop me,” Louis retorts shakily. His grip doesn’t loosen on the fork.

“Yeah,” Harry says. Louis doesn’t pull his wrist away. “Just like I’m not going to stop you if you walk out the door. And if you tell me that there’s nothing between us, that I’m imagining everything, I won’t try to find you again.”

Louis is watching him, blue eyes wide and heated. “So it’s just that simple, then?” he asks, turning his wrist in Harry’s hand, so the flutter of his pulse beneath his skin catches Harry’s eye, draws his attention.

Nothing about this is simple. There’s a story, hidden deep in the heart of the lore, that says that the reason vampires and incubi don’t usually mate is because of how easily they can drain each other dry. That same story is about a vampire and incubus pairing, about passion and heat and sex, and as far as Harry can tell it’s the only story of its kind. It’s the only story that says it’s possible, and that if it happens the draw the two feel will pull them together, almost like they’re unable to avoid it.

Even if that story is right, even if they are able to make it work, nothing about this will be simple. Louis is hotheaded and violent, and Harry isn’t much better. They will clash, over and over, and neither of them is the lie down and die type. It won’t be easy.

“Yes,” Harry says. He can all but hear the beat of Louis’ heart in his head, calling to him, asking him to take a nibble. Just one tiny little nibble, prove to Louis once and for all how good it can feel for him. How good Harry can make it feel for him.

Louis is still watching him. A few seconds tick by, silence hanging heavy in the air between them, and then he opens his mouth. “I don’t – ”

He’s had more than enough time. If he meant a single word of what he’s about to say he would have said it already. Harry cuts him off with his mouth, pulling Louis into his body and kissing him deep and wet, not relinquishing his grip on Louis’ wrist.

Any slivers of doubt Harry might have had slip away the second Louis starts kissing back. He starts kissing Harry back a split second after Harry crushes their mouths together, opening up for him slick and easy, and there’s nothing about this Louis can deny, not like this. Not when he’s giving as good as he’s getting, tongue pressing warm and wet against Harry’s, arching up into him. Their bodies rub together from chest to crotch, and Harry thinks, dazed, _fuck it_ , about to grab Louis by the thighs and haul him up because they’re getting somewhere, they’re finally fucking _getting somewhere_ – 

The pain in his hand is mild, tolerable. It comes as a surprise, though, and it’s enough of a distraction for Louis to slip away, putting five feet between them before Harry has a chance to react.

“All you want is someone who can fulfill your fantasies,” Louis says, shaky, and then he’s standing there in the clothes he was wearing on the first night they met, tight jeans, tight shirt, neck and throat exposed, hair styled to be carefully messy, looking every inch the scared, vulnerable boy Harry had mistaken him for.

Harry knows better than that now. Louis is anything but scared and vulnerable, and he’s using this as another distraction.

It’s one that’s not going to work. Harry pulls the fork out of his hand, letting it clatter to the floor carelessly, and arches an eyebrow in Louis’ direction. “This is what you think I want?”

Louis probably doesn’t have any more weapons, but even if he does Harry is long past the point of caring. He advances, taking two steps towards Louis, and continues, “You need to try a little harder, baby, you’re so far off the mark it’s kind of funny.”

With every step Harry takes forward, Louis takes one back. Between one blink of the eye and another, Louis has changed himself again, into torn jeans, a black shirt, hair still messy but not artfully so this time. It’s closer to what he normally wears than the last one was, but it’s still an allure, and Harry sees right through it.

“Doesn’t matter how many looks I have to go through, there’s going to be one you want,” Louis snaps, still backing up. Doesn’t even seem to realize that he’s backing himself into a corner, and Harry isn’t going to tell him. “There’s always one.”

Something a little bleak shines through in his tone. “Doesn’t matter what mask you put on, sweetheart. I’m always going to want you,” Harry says, still advancing.

Like he realizes he’s being cornered, Louis drops the emo look, filtering through others so fast Harry can barely even tell what any of them are. The gap between them is narrowing, and it only takes another two steps before Louis bumps into the wall, stumbling, not taking his eyes off Harry as he spreads his arms apart, fingers searching for the doorway.

He’s about two feet away. Harry isn’t going to tell him that.

“There’s always going to be one you want,” Louis repeats to himself. His shoulders fall as he exhales deeply, and then – 

Harry’s feet come to an abrupt stop. He’s staring. He knows he’s staring. He can’t tear his eyes away.

In front of him, Louis says triumphantly, “Knew it,” arms falling to his sides. Harry’s still staring, and he can’t stop himself from licking at his bottom lip, the gesture unconscious and turned on.

In front of him, Louis is standing against the wall, and he’s wearing one of Harry’s dress shirts. He’s wearing _only_ one of Harry’s dress shirts, with only the last two buttons done up, most of his skin on display. 

He’s almost naked. Louis is standing in front of him, almost naked, and yeah, this _is_ what Harry wants.

Harry hasn’t stopped staring. Louis looks down at himself, and it’s like he’s seeing it for the first time. Like maybe this is something that came to him unconsciously, like it’s something he didn’t even think about, so panicked that he just went with his gut. 

“Fuck,” Louis breathes. His hands fly up, scrambling to get the rest of the buttons done up, and he must be flustered because he could just think himself into something else, but he doesn’t.

Harry’s feet are moving again. He’s standing in front of Louis before either of them can blink, and right here with no distance left between them, the blood heavy scent of him isn’t something Harry can ignore any longer.

“You were right,” Harry says. His hand comes up to trace along the back of Louis’ wrist, slip up under the sleeve of the shirt. “This is something I want.”

Louis’ breathing is so fast Harry can see it in his throat, the sharp inhales and dramatic exhales. _Styles_ is monogrammed just above the breast pocket, making it undisputedly Harry’s. He doesn’t say anything, wet pink lips parted, and he doesn’t stop Harry from touching him, from sliding his hand up Louis’ arm gently.

“ _You’re_ what I want,” Harry continues, dipping his head so he can say the words into Louis’ mouth. “Doesn’t matter what you’re wearing, I wasn’t lying about that, but there are a few things that are going to go straight to my cock.”

It’s the truth. Harry isn’t a big liar, necessarily, but Louis is the person he’s the most honest with, and it seems like every time they see each other Harry just gets more and more truthful. It would probably be a problem if Harry thought Louis had any intention of using it against him.

No, Louis is cunning and violent, but he wouldn’t use something like this against Harry. 

“I – ” Louis says, licking his lips again, and he’s going to say _kiss me_ , Harry knows he is. Harry _knows it_.

There’s a noise behind them. Harry doesn’t turn to look, doesn’t care what it is, but the spell is broken. Louis doesn’t say it, and his breathing doesn’t get any less ragged as he slashes his blade across Harry’s forearm.

It’s quick and neat, doesn’t even draw too much blood. Harry looks down at it reflexively, and that’s all the time Louis needs to slip out from between him and the wall, wasting no time as he makes his escape.

This time, Harry lets him go. Something between them has changed, and he knows Louis knows it.

He doesn’t think it’ll be long before Louis is back.

Waiting is hard. It takes nearly two weeks before Louis shows his face again. Two weeks in which Harry deliberately doesn’t seek him out, no matter how much he wants to. The more Harry thinks about it, the more sure he becomes that Louis has to be the one to come to him. Harry can spend his days chasing after Louis until he’s blue in the face, and it’s not going to get him anything other than an assortment of stab wounds.

Occasionally, he thinks he gets a whiff of the scent of Louis’ blood. By now, they’ve spent enough time together for Harry to be able to recognize it. He can’t track it, not yet, but it’s undeniable when it belongs to Louis. Every time it happens, Harry drops what he’s doing and takes a thorough look around, but he’s never managed to catch sight of Louis. If he’s there, he’s doing an excellent job escaping notice.

When it finally happens, Harry is alone. He’s sitting in a dark theatre by himself at two o’clock on a Thursday afternoon, watching the dress rehearsal for a play he’s invested a bit of money in. Technically speaking, he may own the entire theatre, but he can’t be sure without going back to check his records. Regardless, Harry is the only person in the audience, sitting up on the balcony with a drink balanced delicately on his knee. The theatre is small, a little run-down. Harry’s been attending performances here for years. He’s comfortable within the confines of the space, familiar with the exits and the backstage alike. He’s definitely not expecting his routine to be shaken up by the arrival of a dangerously attractive little creature.

Harry’s engrossed in the scene being acted out on the stage down below him. There’s a warm, comfortable feeling in his body, one he doesn’t pay any heed to until it’s too late.

“Thought you vamps were supposed to be able to sense impending danger or some shit,” Louis says from behind him. Harry blinks down at the plastic cup balanced on his knee, coming to a sudden realization.

Whatever Louis used to drug Harry’s drink is tasteless and odorless. It’ll probably only be a matter of minutes before Harry’s body is completely paralyzed.

Or it would be, anyway, if Harry hadn’t had decades for his body to strengthen. The drug is affecting him, weighing down his limbs, but not so much that he couldn’t defend himself if needed. Not enough that he’ll be able to stop Louis from leaving.

“That depends,” Harry says, head lolling to the side as he watches Louis come around the row of seats, sliding down into the one next to Harry gracefully. “Suffice it to say that you don’t seem like a threat to me.”

Instead of being offended, Louis cocks an amused smile in his direction, reaching to pluck the cup out of Harry’s loose grasp. “Really?” he drawls, swirling the liquid around and peering down at it. “You feel you can still say that in your current position?”

It’s not the best timing, Harry is willing to admit. His fingertips are tingling, but they’re not numb. If he had to, he could move. He’d be willing to bet that he could still move fast enough to subdue the average person.

Louis has proven himself to be anything but average.

“Yes,” Harry says honestly. He remains still. Keeping the degree to which the drug has affected him a secret seems like it will be an advantage. Harry’s trying to gather as many of those as he can.

“Of course you do,” Louis mutters to himself. He gives the cup another swish. “What is this?”

“Brandy,” Harry answers. “Straight up. You can have some, if you’d like.”

Immediately, Louis brings the cup up to his mouth. He takes several long, thorough sips, unaffected by the drug he’d dosed it with, until the liquor is gone, and tosses the cup down between his feet. Below them, the play goes on, the actors either unaware of what’s happening above them or too afraid to look up. Harry can’t bring himself to care either way.

“What are you doing here, Louis?” Harry asks eventually, after it’s become clear that Louis isn’t going to say anything. Louis must have sought him out. There’s no way he happened upon this tiny little theatre by chance. Harry’s spent a lot of money hiding his investments – chancing upon them is something that doesn’t happen.

Louis is quiet for another long minute. He draws a foot up onto the seat with him, resting his arm on top of it. Something about it stills Harry into contemplation. It’s not a position that screams fear or discomfort. Louis might be able to get out of it quickly, but it’s not a fighting stance. It’s a _relaxed_ stance.

“I came,” Louis says, “to tell you to leave me alone.”

It’s an echo of what he’d said to Harry in the club. And in his house. His heartbeat doesn’t stutter. His pulse doesn’t pick up. Harry still doesn’t believe him.

“Sure,” Harry says evenly. 

Louis bristles. “I did,” he snaps. “I can’t keep doing this song and dance with you. I have other things to be doing than constantly looking over my shoulder, wondering if you’re going to pop up at an inopportune time and fuck me over.”

If anything, Louis is the one who’s been fucking someone over. It takes a lot to leave a lasting mark on Harry’s body, much more than the things Louis has done to him, but if he was human he’d have a handful of scars to show for it. Louis had a chance to disappear completely, and instead of taking it, he’s shown back up in Harry’s life looking like a dream come true.

“Sure,” Harry repeats, no less even. The only thing that would make this moment better is a refill of his brandy. Sweetest blood he’s ever smelled, all wrapped up in a perfect acerbic package, a play going on in a theatre Harry might own. It feels like a date. 

Harry hasn’t had one of those in a long time, though, so he might be mistaken. He normally prefers to get his meals from a willing source and shoo them away before the sun has even come up. He hasn’t dated in years.

“Vampires are _annoying_ ,” Louis says, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth loudly and dramatically. The sound doesn’t carry far enough to reach the actors on stage below them, continuing on with their performance. “I knew there was a reason I never hung around you lot.”

There’s probably a lot of reasons. All that lore had to come from somewhere. That being said, it’s different between him and Louis. Thrilling and intense. It’s not fueled by the hatred of their ancestors.

“Alright, sweetheart, whatever you say,” Harry says, warm and amused. He’s beginning to realize just how many exceptions he’s going to wind up making for this boy. Break every goddamn rule he has. “Do you want to finish watching the play with me?”

“No,” Louis says, but he doesn’t get up. He shifts, making himself more comfortable. The heat of his thigh bleeds against Harry’s even with the plastic of the seats separating them. 

Harry can feel it well enough to know that whatever Louis dosed him with is starting to wear off. He’s careful to remain just as still as he was before. The last thing he wants it to give Louis an excuse to flee.

There’s only another twenty minutes left on the play. Louis stays seated for the duration, mostly quiet as he watches. He makes the occasional soft remark under his breath, not seeming to expect a response. Harry watches him as much as he watches the play. If it was a scheduled performance instead of a dress rehearsal, he might find Louis’ talking irritating. Right now, there’s something oddly endearing about it.

When the play is over, the lights don’t come up as they normally would. The theatre stays dark, noise down to a minimum as the director gathers the actors for some last minute comments. This particular play goes live in just under a week, Harry believes. 

“Okay,” Louis says from beside him. 

Harry catches his hand before he can make contact, gripping his wrist tight. There’s a needle held between two of Louis’ fingers, a small amount of clear liquid sliding along inside of it.

“You’re not as good of an actor as you think you are,” Louis tells him. He stays still for another split second, allowing the words to sink in, before moving quickly and efficiently. He swings a leg over Harry’s lap, straddling him on the seat. Harry doesn’t see the second needle coming before it’s piercing his skin, injecting him between his lower ribs.

The drug takes effect immediately, sliding through his veins and weighing down his limbs. He probably has a few seconds to make a move before it overwhelms him.

“Neither are you,” Harry says. He forces his fingers to uncurl from around Louis’ wrist, letting him go.

After that, it becomes something of a pattern. Harry doesn’t have to force himself to stop looking for Louis because Louis shows up often enough. Every few days, Louis will make an appearance in a place Harry is at. It’s never at the club, or at his home, but when Harry’s out he can expect Louis to find him.

He gleans bits of information about Louis’ life. Small, unassuming mentions of his big family, his siblings – although he won’t tell Harry how many – or the kinds of things he does in his spare time. Things that seem to slip out of Louis’ mouth before he realizes what he’s letting go of. He never gives up crucial information, like where he actually lives or what he does for money, but Harry starts piecing together a better picture of who Louis is.

It’s a lot like the first few dates in any relationship. Granted, there’s a lot more stabbing and threatening, but they get to know each other slowly, over the course of a few weeks. Not once in that entire time does Harry lose interest, and that’s how he knows that this is something real. That this is something worth fighting for.

Of course, everything has to come to a head eventually.

There’s a problem in the club. It’s just gone midnight on a Saturday, so that isn’t particularly unusual. Harry’s keeping an eye on it on the security monitor in his office, but he trusts Liam to be able get it under control. Harry hasn’t had to personally intervene in an altercation in years. He has people for that, now.

The fight brewing on the dance floor must have distracted the security working at the back entrance. It’s the only explanation for what Harry can smell now – that familiar scent of Louis’ blood, beckoning to him through the maze of hallways.

Harry’s pen clatters to the desktop the second he smells it. For a minute, he remains in his chair, having an internal debate about whether he should follow it or not. On one hand, Louis has come to him the last two dozen times they’ve seen each other. On the other, none of those times have been in Harry’s space. There’s a game going on here, one Harry isn’t sure he knows the rules of.

He’s always been exponentially more territorial when it comes to his space, though, and it doesn’t take long before he’s rising out of his chair, searching out the source of that scent. The hallways are long since familiar to him, and it doesn’t take long to find Louis, standing in front of a storage room door as though he’s trying to will it open.

Harry comes to a slop stop several feet behind Louis, watching him. If Louis knows he’s there, he doesn’t acknowledge Harry’s presence. “Hello, sweetheart,” Harry murmurs. Here, deep in the back hallways of the club, the music is inaudible, leaving only the sound of Louis’ steady heartbeat.

“Hi,” Louis says, giving the bottom of the door a short kick. “What’s in here?”

“Supplies,” Harry says. “Alcohol, mostly. What are you doing here?”

This feels different than the last few times. Maybe it’s because Louis is here, in a place that’s undeniably Harry’s. They’re not on neutral ground anymore.

“Investigating,” Louis says absently. His back is turned to Harry. Harry’s head spins trying to figure out whether it’s a sign of trust or if it just means that Louis doesn’t see him as a threat.

“You’re lying,” Harry says. He doesn’t know whether that’s true or not. It feels true, but he can’t tell from Louis’ physiology. 

Louis shoots him a quick look over his shoulder before going back to examining the door. “So what if I am?”

Harry blinks. He’d been expecting a denial. Not – whatever this is. “Tell me why you’re really here.”

As he says it, he’s not expecting it to work. Honest and forthcoming are things Louis isn’t. Harry usually isn’t either, so he can’t blame him.

“Why?” Louis asks, giving up on the door and spinning around. “What does it do for you if I tell you the truth?”

It’s direct and combative. Harry can’t resist stepping up to the challenge, taking two steps forward. Enough to crowd Louis back up against the door without actually touching him. “Everything,” Harry murmurs, not quite an answer to Louis’ question.

Louis tips his chin up, defiant. “Too bad. I don’t owe you anything.”

Harry begs to differ. At the very least, Louis owes him a taste of his mouth. He hasn’t let Harry have it in weeks, preferring to inflict violence upon him instead. If Harry wasn’t so enamored with him, it’s something he would have put a stop to a long time ago.

“That might have been true a month ago,” Harry says, leaning an arm against the wall near Louis’ head, caging him in slowly, “but at this point, I think you owe me a hell of a lot.”

It’s not exactly subtle, what Harry’s doing. He doesn’t feel the press of any sharp objects against his body, though. Not yet, at least.

“I don’t owe you anything,” Louis denies. “I take. That’s what my species does.”

That’s a vast oversimplification. Louis’ species _feeds_ , the same as Harry’s does. In that respect, they’re not so different.

“Okay,” Harry says. “If you only take, why are you here? Why do you keep coming back?”

“You’re good for a feeding,” Louis says, reaching out to lay his hand flat against Harry’s chest. Immediately, Harry can feel the pull of _something_ coming out of him. It’s something he’s never felt before. He didn’t even know Louis could do this. Take his sustenance in this way.

It’s not enough to sap Harry’s strength. There’s an interesting feeling to it, like it could easily slide towards being bad, but at the moment it mostly just feels like he’s being drained of something. Harry should probably be more concerned about that.

“I could feed you better,” Harry murmurs without thinking about it. The only place they’re touching is where Louis’ hand is resting on his chest, and yet Harry’s fangs are already threatening to pierce through his gums. “Sate your hunger properly.”

The offer is genuine. Louis laughs, a tad mockingly, and pats Harry’s chest once, interrupting the connection. “No thanks.”

The rejection doesn’t do anything to bruise Harry’s ego. Not when he can smell Louis’ blood so clearly, rushing through his veins at a much higher rate than it had when he’d first spotted him. One day, that no is going to turn into a yes. For now, Harry still has the patience to wait for it.

“Fine,” Harry agrees, taking a step back. Louis’ hand falls off him. Harry doesn’t wait to see his reaction, turning around striding back towards his office.

It’s the first time he’s been the one to walk away. It doesn’t feel as freeing as he’d imagined it might.

In his office, he only gets a minute of peace before Louis is barreling through the door, slamming it closed behind him. Once again, the music is muted into silence. “What?” Harry asks, taking a seat behind his desk and lacing his fingers together on his lap. It comes out heavier than he means it to, more tired.

“This whole thing you’re doing?” Louis starts, slamming his hands palm down onto the desk. The noise it makes is loud, jarring. Harry doesn’t flinch, leaning back in his chair. “Trying to fool yourself into believing that the two of us could ever work? It needs to stop.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, tapping his index finger against the armrest. “Why?” he asks simply.

“Why?” Louis demands, growing more outraged by the second. He thumps his chest with a fist once and then gestures to Harry. “You and I aren’t meant for each other. We would destroy each other. It wouldn’t be pretty.”

Patiently, Harry hears him out. When he’s done, deflating as though he’s run out of steam, Harry says calmly, “You don’t know that.”

Louis blinks at him once. Then, like he can’t hold himself up anymore, he sags down into a chair, putting his face in his hands. All of Harry’s instincts are screaming at him to take advantage of this moment, to push his own agenda until Louis starts to believe him. Until Louis sees it the way Harry does.

Instead, Harry stays quiet.

“There’s a reason our species don’t interact,” Louis says, his voice muffled by his hands. He looks up, sitting straight in the chair. “We’re entirely too much alike for anything between us to ever work.”

Harry leans forward. “How many of these pairings do you know of?” he asks. “I’ve never even met an incubi before you. I can’t imagine you’ve met a lot of vamps. I’ve definitely never heard of a vampire and an incubus together in my lifetime. The only place I have seen it is in centuries-old lore. You can’t tell me that you actually believe that to be factual.”

Louis leans forward as well, aggressively matching Harry’s position. “I think there’s a reason that our species don’t interact, and that trying to outwit that reason isn’t going to get me anywhere.”

“Fine,” Harry says shortly. His patience is beginning to wear thin. “If that’s what you truly think, why don’t you just go away? You could leave if that’s what you wanted, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything to stop you. There’s a _reason_ you keep coming back, Louis.”

There’s an undeniably magnetic pull between them. There’s no resisting something like that.

Louis’ eyes narrow. “You know what?” he asks. “I am going to leave. Goodbye, Harry.”

He stands up and walks out the door without looking back. Harry watches him go, muscles heavy and unmoving in his chair. This might be the first time Louis has ever left without causing him bodily harm.

It doesn’t feel like as much of a victory as it should.

It’s less than four hours before Louis is back again. Harry is in his penthouse above the club, mostly naked after his shower. He hears Louis several minutes before he sees him, banging around downstairs. Clearly, it’s intentional noise, meant for Harry to be able to hear him.

There’s no doubt about who it is, either. Louis’ blood has a particular scent that Harry has grown accustomed to, wafting up the stairs and through the open door. It won’t be much longer before Harry is able to track that scent across the city. He’s not there yet, but he can definitely smell it in his own flat.

Harry’s still emotionally bruised from their conversation earlier. He doesn’t go down to confront Louis, toweling himself dry instead. If Louis wants something from him, if he’s _come here for something_ , he can damn well seek Harry out to get it. Harry’s tired of playing his little games.

Eventually, Louis does. Harry’s back is turned to the door, but he doesn’t need to be able to see to know that Louis is there.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asks. He doesn’t bother with dressing, securing the towel around his hips before turning to face Louis. He waits for an answer expectantly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Louis stares at him, unblinking. It’s a look that causes Harry to nearly glance down at his own body, saving face at the last second.

“Nothing,” Louis says. “I don’t know.”

They’re two entirely different statements. “Well, which is it?” Harry snaps. “Nothing, or you don’t know?”

For some reason, Harry’s anger seems to strengthen Louis’ resolve. He comes a little closer, seemingly unaware of the impact he’s having just by being in Harry’s bedroom.

“I’m hungry,” Louis says.

Harry’s heart stops beating. It runs on recycled blood, giving him the breath to speak, the energy to accomplish things, but he doesn’t actually need it to beat steadily. “You’re hungry,” he repeats.

“Yes,” Louis whispers, closing the last bit of distance between them and tucking two fingertips into Harry’s towel, threatening to loosen it and send it falling to the floor. He looks up at Harry from underneath his eyelashes, coy and mischievous, nothing other than a little sex kitten.

It’s clearly an invitation. Harry’s resolve is already weakening, from the way Louis is touching him, the way he looks, the smell of his blood thundering through his veins. Harry wants all of it. Harry wants all of _him_.

“Okay,” Harry says. Keeping his arms at his sides is getting more excruciating by the second. “What do you want me to do about it?”

All it takes for Harry’s towel to fall to the floor is one simple tug. The fabric pools around Harry’s feet, slightly damp, leaving him completely naked. He doesn’t feel exposed. If anything, he feels powerful.

Still, he catches Louis’ wrist in a tight grip before he can do anything else, holding it still. “That’s not an answer, sweetheart,” he tells Louis, grabbing Louis’ other wrist before he can get any bright ideas and holding them together. It doesn’t take much effort to keep them pinned because Louis isn’t trying to get out of Harry’s grasp.

Louis’ tongue darts out to lick at his bottom lip, leaving it spit-wet and shiny. It’s a hard thing to look away from. “You could sate my hunger a little.”

Harry could. There’s a thousand and one things he wants to do to Louis, different ways to touch him and make him feel good before Harry takes what he wants. Takes everything he wants.

_Sate my hunger_. That’s not a reciprocal statement. Harry doesn’t get anything he really wants out of that.

“Why would I do that?” Harry asks, raising an eyebrow. He can feel his own power surging up inside of him, demanding to be let free. He hasn’t had to hold onto it so tightly in years. “Are you going to feed me in return? Give me the chance to taste your blood?”

“No,” Louis says, so sweet it’ll rot Harry’s teeth if he has to keep listening, “but you’re going to anyway, aren’t you? For me? Because I’m asking you to?”

Manipulation must be a gift all incubi have. Harry sees it for what it is, recognizes it. He still buckles under its weight.

“Depends,” Harry murmurs, using his grip on Louis’ wrists to yank him off balance, pull their bodies together, “Are you going to do what I tell you?”

He catches a split second of the smirk on Louis’ face before they’re kissing, hard and clashing. There’s nothing gentle about it, a fight for dominance that Harry is determined to win. He tries to catch Louis’ tongue between his teeth, takes everything Louis is giving up without thought for what it’ll do to them, pulling Louis until the back of his knees hit the bed.

He doesn’t sit down, breaking away from the kiss abruptly and tossing Louis onto the bed easily. Harry’s fast, fast enough to grab the handcuffs from his bedside table before Louis has a chance to put up any kind of struggle, gathering his wrists up again and locking the steel around them.

“I feel like this says something about you,” Louis comments, looking down at the handcuffs looped around his wrists. He doesn’t seem displeased by the turn of events. Maybe it’s what he was expecting.

Harry doesn’t really care, pushing his hand down the front of Louis’ trackies. He finds Louis’ cock already hard and wet at the tip, pulsing against his touch. “Shh,” he murmurs, looking down at Louis’ face. The sweet, deliberately innocent looking face of this sex demon. Harry’s long since stopped falling for that act.

It still does something for him, though, there’s no denying that. Harry doesn’t know when he got hard, but he is, cock standing firm between his thighs, all but itching with the need to feel Louis’ skin. Maybe it’s got something to do with his baser instincts, the desire to hunt his prey.

“Make me,” Louis says. It’s a line he must have used a thousand times before, on a thousand different people. Something that could be straight out of porn.

Harry ignores it, giving Louis’ cock one long, slow stroke. His head feels fuzzy, like there’s a curtain falling down that’s cutting him off from all his instincts. The smell of Louis’ blood doesn’t lessen, nor does Harry’s desire to taste it. It’s a barely manageable ache most of the time. Now, it feels a little muted. A little less intense than normal.

“Pretty boy,” Harry murmurs, already getting lost in how good this feels, Louis underneath him. “Can’t wait to see what you taste like.”

He means more than just Louis’ blood. Louis arches up into his hand wantonly. He’s not even a little bit naked and he’s still the most beautiful thing Harry has ever seen, the metal of the handcuffs gleaming against his skin where his hands are resting between their bodies. He’s beautiful, and Harry wants to see all of him.

All the frustration he’s felt leading up to this point has ebbed away, leaving only this moment, this feeling. How it all feels _worth it_.

“Too bad you can’t,” Louis says, so low Harry barely hears it. He can feel the way his eyes have started bleeding red around the pupil, fangs pricking against his own tongue. His pace gets messy and uncoordinated as he jerks Louis off, turning his wrist to feel more of Louis’ soft skin. Louis doesn’t seem to mind, pink-cheeked and lips parted, breathing unsteadily as he fucks up into it.

Harry can’t tell what it means. _Too bad you can’t_. It almost sounds like Louis wishes he _would_. The thought makes his head spin, knees pressing down against the mattress harder. He wants to tear Louis’ clothing right off his body, expose him for Harry’s eyes. He wants a lot of things. So many things.

“You’d want it,” Harry says, hissing the words out from between his teeth. Louis’ mouth looks sweet and inviting. Harry wants a taste of it. “If you knew what it felt like, you’d want it all the goddamn time. Never be able to get enough of it.”

“You don’t know anything,” Louis says, yanking Harry’s head down. Their mouths meet in a brutal kiss, punishing and violent. Both of them try to get the upper hand, warring against each other. Louis’ cock is silky and hard in Harry’s fist, reacting to every stroke. Harry is distracted by the kiss, drowning in it, and he barely manages to pull it back together before Louis starts to come.

It’s nothing short of incredible, watching Louis come. His hand is still in Harry’s hair, holding him close, eyes closed and mouth open in a silent cry as he comes, wetness spreading across Harry’s hand. It’s nothing short of distracting, too, which is why Harry doesn’t realize that Louis is free of the handcuffs before it’s too late.

The metal, still warm from Louis’ skin, is tight around Harry’s wrists. Harry rotates his hands once, not even having begun thinking about trying to break them before Louis is making his escape. He uses a well-placed smack to Harry’s groin to aid his escape. It’s not enough to have Harry doubling over, but it’s enough for Louis to slip out from underneath him and be gone before Harry can recover.

It only takes about five seconds for Harry to snap the handcuffs apart. He doesn’t even think about going for the key, chasing Louis’ fading blood-scent down the stairs and into his foyer.

It doesn’t matter. By the time Harry gets there, Louis is long gone.

It’s not the last time Louis drops by, searching for something Harry is entirely too willing to give him. Not by a long shot.

“Don’t,” Louis gasps, fingers trembling as he holds the knife against Harry’s chest, the silver of it stinging even through Harry’s shirt. “The second I so much as _see_ your fangs this is going straight through your chest, you understand?”

Harry’s cold-blooded by nature, but the heat in the room still has him sweating, dampening the neck of his shirt, underneath his arms. He’s still hazy on how exactly they got here, not exactly sure how watching Louis from across a club has lead to him pinning Louis up against a wall, music thumping around them, loud and overbearing.

Decides it doesn’t matter. “You know what would happen if you let me bite you?” he asks, hoisting Louis higher against the wall, ducking his head to watch the blur of his hand stroking Louis’ cock, cramped and still half in his jeans. “You’d come. It’d be so easy, baby, get you off so quick.”

Louis exhales brokenly, thigh shifting as he tries to arch up into Harry’s hand, knife slipping down a few inches. Harry could probably take it from him right now, just slip it out of his hand and toss it over his shoulder, take him back to Harry’s flat before he regained his wits.

“You bite me and that’s the last time you ever see me,” Louis says. His words are shaky and overwhelmed but determined, unyielding.

Harry’s fangs are pressing against the insides of his own lips, threatening to pierce the thin skin there, create a wound. A wound Harry would much rather put into Louis’ throat, let the blood slip out of him and into Harry’s mouth, down his throat so it can warm his belly.

He doesn’t. It takes every ounce of self-restraint he has, but he doesn’t.

“I want to,” Harry murmurs, pinching at the tip of Louis’ cock, just enough for it to hurt, a quick, stinging pain that ensures he has Louis’ complete attention. “Want to know what your blood tastes like.”

Even Louis’ sweat tastes good. Harry drags his tongue up the column of Louis’ throat, trying to get back at his mouth, and he’s half expecting it when Louis twists to avoid it. It’s only barely enough, leaves his jaw exposed and that’s good enough for now, so Harry settles for sucking a deep bruise into Louis’ skin, one that will take days to fade.

A reminder.

“You can’t,” Louis says, still breathy and restless, caught between trying to wiggle away and fucking up into Harry’s hand. Harry doesn’t give him the space to decide which one he wants, tightening his grip and wanking him faster, until Louis’ back is arching right off the wall. “You’ll - _fuck_ \- you’ll never know.”

Oh, Harry _will_. He’s certain of that, as certain as he is that Louis is going to come any second now, and then once he does - 

Once he does he’ll be malleable enough for Harry to finally get a proper taste of him, to take his mouth like he’s been _longing for_ ever since the last time, taste his insides and bend him until he in the exact position Harry wants him in, lithe and pretty and small, ripe for Harry’s taking.

Then maybe Harry will finally get the chance to taste his blood, prick him just a little, just enough for it to be burnt into his every sense, until it won’t matter how far or how fast Louis runs, because Harry will _always_ be able to find him.

“Shh,” Harry says instead of any of that, finally having learned his lesson, and uses his teeth - the human set, not the fangs - to really cement that bruise into Louis’ skin, shoving his free hand down the back of Louis’ pants to pet at his hole, and that’s all it takes for Louis to come, warm and shuddering into Harry’s hand.

Good boy. Such a good boy, coming so sweetly, so nicely for Harry, doing everything he asks.

“My good boy,” he murmurs, not relinquishing his grip on Louis’ cock, still stroking him quickly. Can’t decide whether he wants to make Louis come again or not.

That’s a lie. He does want to make Louis come again, and then again after that, and again until he finds out how many times Louis can come in a row and whether that’s the norm for incubi or whether Louis is just special. How many times he’s come with other people and exactly how, so Harry can outdo them all, until Louis is overwhelmed and crying because he doesn’t know whether he wants him to stop or if he wants him to continue.

It’ll be a mission, that. Harry’s never heard of an incubus who hasn’t outlasted his partner. But outside of the folklore, he’s also never heard of an incubus and vampire pairing, either, so he’s willing to take his chances.

Louis’ noises get throaty and uneven. “You’re hurting me,” he says softly, laying his hand over Harry’s arm and wrapping his fingers around his wrist. He doesn’t make any attempt to pull it away.

Harry knows his eyes have gone dark, fangs unable to hide anymore, pressing between his lips. “I want to hurt you.”

He does. Want to hurt Louis. Fuck him until he’s screaming and crying, bury his teeth in Louis’ throat and drink his fill, until Louis is spent and can’t deny this connection between them anymore. Until he doesn’t want to.

“I know,” Louis says, tugging Harry’s hand out of his jeans. Harry lets him, but only because his other hand is still pressed between Louis’ arsecheeks, two fingers still slowly stroking his hole, not dipping in. Won’t dip in until Louis begs him for it.

“You want me to hurt you,” Harry says, eyes fixed on the pulse in Louis’ throat, hammering fast and loud, obvious. He can’t even hear the thump of the music around them anymore, only hears the thump of Louis’ heartbeat, still aroused even though he’s come.

“I want a lot of things,” Louis says, shrugging, shirt slipping slowly down one shoulder until it’s nearly bare. Harry’s overcome with the urge to rip it off him, show this room full of people exactly who Louis belongs to. “I’m an incubus, remember? I feed off of your sex thoughts.”

Harry blinks, coming back to himself abruptly. Because that’s - that’s not something that’s in any of the lore. All of the lore says that an incubus feeds off of sex or sex pheromones if they’re not directly involved in the sex, never off of sex thoughts. It’s something Harry has suspected for a long time now, but having it confirmed rocks him off his rhythm.

“You - ” he starts, and doesn’t get a chance to finish the sentence before there’s the pinch of a needle in his thigh. Reflexively, he looks down, but it’s already too late. He can already feel the high of dead man’s blood kicking in, making him woozy and unable to concentrate. He steps back, nearly falling over in the process, and can’t quite manage to focus enough to stare at Louis in disbelief.

It must have been a highly concentrated dose in order to be effecting Harry this fast.

“Thank you for the feeding,” Louis says, tucking the syringe into his boot before anyone can notice, stepping back into Harry’s body. He squeezes Harry’s crotch quickly, tightly, and then he’s gone, scent of him lingering in the air.

Harry gets himself into the loo before he collapses, but only just, and spends the next hour there, floating hazily, staring up at the ceiling and imagining every single thing he’s going to do to Louis once he gets his hands on him again.

He jerks himself off with Louis’ come still coating his hand, and once he’s finished he licks himself clean, ignoring the taste of himself in order to focus on the taste of Louis, sweet and sharp and all Harry’s.

Or he will be, at least.

There’s someone standing behind him. Harry knows this with certainty, the same as he knows exactly who it is. That unmistakeable blood rich scent isn’t one he’s likely to forget any time soon.

What he doesn’t know is _why_ Louis is standing behind him in Harry’s own flat, presumably having slipped right by Harry’s security team. Not that they would have stopped Louis if they had have seen him, but they would have called to say he was in the building.

“For someone who keeps insisting that he wants to be left alone you have a terrible habit of showing up in places you know I’m going to be,” Harry says, tilting his glass a little and watching the liquid swirl around the ice cubes.

Louis doesn’t say anything. Harry frowns down at his glass. “You just going to stand there and stare at me all night or are you going say whatever it is you came here to say?”

“You have to promise you’re not going to flip out,” Louis says. There’s something tense in his voice, something that’s almost cracking.

Harry sets his glass down on the table and stands up before he even realizes he’s moving, turning around and clearing the armchair without thinking about it. The second he gets a good look at Louis, the second he catches sight of him, Harry sees red in a much different way than usual.

He doesn’t register crossing the room until he’s got Louis’ face gripped between his hands, avoiding the blooming bruise darkening Louis’ cheekbone. “Who did this.”

His voice comes out so dark he barely even recognizes it. The phantom taste of blood and sweat and bone floods his mouth, with it the urge to tear apart the flesh of whoever has dared put their hands on something that belongs to Harry. Whoever has _dared_ put this bruise on Louis’ skin, hurt him. _Touched him_.

“Calm down,” Louis snaps, grabbing Harry’s hand and yanking it away from his face. “I put the guy on the ground before he did more than grip me too tight. The only reason I’m even here is because your freaky security team would have found out and you would have done something terrible. Clearly I’m fine, there’s no need to do anything.”

“Who,” Harry repeats, same lack of inflection in his voice. He’s going to rip the guy’s throat out and he’s going to _enjoy every second of it_.

Louis takes a step back, practically ripping himself away from Harry’s hands. “Stop it,” he says firmly. “I came, I told you so you wouldn’t fall off the deep end, now I’m leaving.”

“I can find out, you know,” Harry says before Louis can move, curling his fingers into his palms. “If you were worried about me finding out in the first place I doubt it’ll be hard. The second you leave here I’m going to find out and I’m going to drain him of his blood.”

Slowly and not so carefully.

“I took care of it,” Louis hisses, stalking back into Harry’s space and slamming both hands against his chest. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, you prick, you need to - ”

Kiss him, that’s what Harry needs to do. That’s what Harry _does_ , gripping Louis by the back of his neck and hauling him in, all but smashing their mouths together. He doesn’t waste any time getting his tongue into Louis’ mouth, doesn’t give him a chance to pull away, and feels it all the way through his body and deep into his gut as Louis starts kissing back. Soft and almost shy at first, as though his brain doesn’t want to let him do it but his body can’t help but respond, tongue slick and wet against Harry’s, darting.

“Take off your clothes,” Harry breathes, practically speaking the words into Louis’ mouth. Talking this through like normal, reasonable people will be a lot easier if Louis is naked, Harry is pretty sure. Everything would probably be easier if Louis was naked.

Louis shudders in his arms, arching up, leg sliding between Harry’s. He doesn’t respond but he doesn’t pull away either, and that’s as much of a _yes_ as Harry needs to guide him backwards, until he’s pinned up against the wall with nowhere to go. It feels so good, kissing Louis, like rain after a drought or blood slipping down his throat to warm his belly. 

Like the blood pooling beneath the skin of Louis’ cheek. Just like that, Harry’s brought back to his anger again. His fingers go tight against Louis’ neck abruptly, gripping him. “What were you doing.”

The words come out barely comprehensible, almost slurred. As much as Harry wants to keep kissing Louis, wants to hold him up against this wall and feast on the sounds he makes when he’s being kissed like this, there’s something very important he has to do first. 

He has to _know_.

Almost before Harry can blink, Louis is across the room, fingers trembling as he tucks them together, hair mussed and mouth already well on its way to swelling. The hammer of his pulse is loud even with the distance, calling for Harry’s fangs to find it. For Harry’s fangs to _bite it_.

“I don’t owe you anything,” Louis says. That tremble in his fingertips has spread all the way up his body to his voice, making it shake. “I don’t owe you an explanation or a name or details and I especially don’t owe you my blood.”

Harry’s fangs are pricking against the insides of his mouth. _Blood_. He hasn’t fed in what feels like days, and the blood he’s had has tasted muted, strange. Slightly off.

He knows why.

“Were you trying to pick someone up to feed?” Harry asks, deceptively calm. The monster inside of him wants to rage, wants to be unleashed so it can just _take_ everything it wants, bite and bruise and claim until Louis can’t deny this any more. Until the only thing he wants is Harry’s cock in his arse and his fangs in his throat. Until he admits that he doesn’t need anyone else to live, that Harry’s sex drive is perfectly capable of keeping him alive and flourishing because Harry knows all of these things.

And Harry is tired of waiting.

“Stop,” Louis says firmly.

_Harry’s tired of waiting_. “Were you going to let him fuck you?” he continues, grateful that his glass has long since been set down on the table. His nails are cutting into his own palms, little droplets of blood forming that Harry can already smell. If he was holding a glass it would definitely have shattered under the pressure of his fingers by now.

“Stop!” Louis shouts, throwing a book at Harry’s head. Harry dodges it easily, nails digging into his palms harder as he resists the urge to cross the room and cage Louis in his arms again, _force_ him to listen. Force him to admit that he feels the same things Harry does.

“You stop!” Harry shouts back, losing any semblance of cool he was clinging to. “Stop lying, stop stabbing me, stop letting me kiss you and then stomping all over my goddamn heart, stop fucking _running_!”

His chest feels like someone’s stuck their hand through it, breathing ragged and out of control. Everything feels like it’s spinning out of control, moving too quickly for Harry to get a grip on. He’s never felt like this about anyone before, never let anyone manipulate him like this. And Louis is manipulating him, Harry knows. _Knows_.

He just doesn’t care.

Louis is staring at him. That’s all he’s doing, staring wide-eyed, lips slightly parted, hands dangling uselessly at his sides. Harry inhales slowly, forcing his fingers to uncurl. “Leave,” he says abruptly, sinking back down into his chair and letting his head fall against the back, eyes closing. “You came, you told me, you took care of the situation. I won’t do anything. You can sleep easy tonight knowing you’ve done the right thing. You have my word that I’ll leave it alone.”

Even if it means he has to drink himself into a stupor for the next few days.

Before Harry has a chance to really start wallowing in his self-pity, Louis is straddling his lap, a warm heavy weight on top of him, one that feels so nice, so perfect. So right. “I’m not stomping all over your heart,” Louis whispers, thumbing gently across Harry’s mouth. “You’re being ridiculous if you think that the two of us could ever work.”

Resolutely, Harry keeps his eyes closed. He can’t keep his hands from creeping up to settle around Louis’ waist, though. “You just need to get me out of your system,” Louis continues. He doesn’t sound as sure of himself as he would probably like to. “You just have some weird obsession with the local incubus, that’s all it is. You wouldn’t be the first person with an obsession.”

That’s not what it is at all. Harry doesn’t have the energy to argue with him right now though, now when he’s finally here in Harry’s lap, not fighting. Giving in. 

This must be him giving in. Harry doesn’t know what else it could be.

“That’s all it is,” Louis repeats, yanking a fistful of Harry’s hair so hard that his head snaps backwards and his eyes fly open. Harry can feel the glow in them, burning hot and bright as he registers that all too familiar prick of fangs in his mouth.

He wants blood and sex and he doesn’t care what order he gets it in.

They’re kissing before Harry even registers either of them moving, gripping Louis by the back of his thighs and heaving them both up, knocking over a lamp as he strides across the room to throw Louis down on the bed. Doesn’t give Louis a chance to get up or change his mind before they’re kissing again, pinning him to the bed. Harry doesn’t bite - he’s very careful not to bite - sucking at Louis’ bottom lip and gathering up his wrists with one hand so Harry can hold them against the bed, prevent him from going anywhere. Just in case.

“Don’t bite me,” Louis gasps out, squirming underneath Harry’s body, thighs giving way and letting Harry sink down between them properly. “I’ll rip your head off your shoulders if you bite me, Harry, I’m serious.”

It’s hard to really take him seriously when he’s breathing this hard, squirming this prettily. Harry’s fangs ache with the desire to do it anyway, just bite down until blood spills onto his tongue, coating the inside of his mouth, making its way into his veins, to his heart.

He doesn’t. For now, he doesn’t. Wants the first time he tastes Louis’ blood to be because Louis wants him to, because Louis is _begging_ him to. Harry’s instincts will always tell him to bite anyway, rip through skin until he tastes blood, and it’s the worst it’s ever been right now with the way Louis smells to him, but it’s been years since he’s lost control of himself like that.

It feels dangerously close right now. He swallows back saliva, letting the sharp ends of his fangs graze across Louis’ skin, inhaling deeply.

“If you don’t want me to bite you,” Harry says with some difficulty, lifting his head to look Louis in the eyes, “You shouldn’t have come here.”

For a lot of species, the prospect of a vampire’s bite holds a certain appeal. It’s an evolutionary gift, meant to help with the survival of their species, and before meeting Louis Harry never cared to find out whether incubi are on the list of creatures susceptible to it.

Now, he knows that there’s a frustrating amount of conflicting evidence, conflicting theories. Some say incubi are no different than humans when it comes to the lure of a vampire bite, others say that it has no affect, that any abilities a vampire and an incubus would have on their prey are negated when the prey is the other. That they’re both creatures who feed on the life of others in ways that are too similar to be able to affect each other.

Harry doesn’t know if Louis feels it, the lure in his body that wants to allow Harry to bite him, but he knows what he feels about Louis. The draw he feels to Louis.

“I already told you why I came here,” Louis says, like he’s asking for another fight, and a part of Harry wants to give it to him. It’s the part of him that wants to bend, wants to feel Louis break underneath him, wants to taste his own name in Louis’ mouth.

He’s tired of fighting. He’s so fucking tired of fighting, and he can’t think of any other ways to convince Louis that this thing between them is more than just sex, more than whatever affect they have on each other. That this thing between them could be _everything_ if Louis just _let it_.

Harry lets his head tip back, eyes closed. Maybe he’ll try again tomorrow, try to convince Louis that this is worth pursuing, but for now he can’t. He just can’t.

Before Harry really has a chance to start wallowing in his own self-pity, Louis is kissing him. It’s gentler this time, slower. Harry kisses back, can’t stop himself, clutching Louis’ hips between his hands. His fangs have receded for now, but that won’t last for long, not with the scent of Louis’ blood pumping away so close to his face.

“I’ll prove it to you,” Louis murmurs, barely breaking the kiss as he puts his hands between them, fingers working at the buttons of Harry’s shirt. “You’ve built it up in your head so much the reality is bound to be disappointing, and then you’ll realize I was right all along.”

Harry’s not wrong. Harry knows that he’s right about this, right about _them_ , with the same kind of certainty his mum used to talk about his dad with. It’s been a long time since Harry’s had parents, but he remembers their love for each other, real and solid until their dying days, and he knows that this is that same spark, lighting up the room every time he looks at Louis. Whatever else they may be, whatever other obstacles they have to overcome, he knows that for sure.

If he was a better person, he might turn Louis away now. Wait to have sex with him until Louis knows what Harry does, until Louis stops running from these feelings and starts embracing them instead.

Harry’s never claimed to be a good person. He grips Louis’ hips tighter and kisses him harder, kisses him _better_ , hands taking on a life of their own as they try to spread Louis apart even wider, so Harry can sink all the way down between his thighs, groin pressed against groin.

Louis bounces against the mattress once, eyes dark and cheeks flushed as he gazes up at Harry, blinking slowly. It’s clearly a move he uses when he feeds, a touch of demure coyness shining through, and it makes Harry so fucking angry. Makes him determined to pull reactions out of Louis he’s never let anyone else see, noises he’s never let anyone else hear. If they’re going to do this before Louis is ready to admit what’s between them they’re going to do it Harry’s way.

Minus the blood.

He makes short work of Louis’ clothes, practically tearing them off his body. The bloodlust is still simmering through him, coursing through every vein, but Harry can ignore it. Won’t give in to it until Louis says yes, admits that he wants Harry to drink from him.

Like he’s reading Harry’s mind, Louis says, waveringly, “Don’t bite.” It’s a warning as much as it’s anything, and Harry laughs sharply, sinking indents into Louis’ skin with his fingers, gripping him tight, possessive. Thinks that if he can’t have Louis’ blood quite yet he’ll at least have Louis walk out of here wearing Harry’s bruises.

“You going to press another knife against my throat if I do?”

The words come out just as sharp as the laugh did, and Harry doesn’t care. Doesn’t care. He may not want another fight right now but that doesn’t mean he’s going to let things go, pretend that everything between them is fine. Whatever counts as fine for the two of them, anyway.

Louis pulls back a couple of inches, enough that he can stare Harry in the face. He’s silent for a handful of seconds, ignoring the tight grip Harry has on his hips. Then he says, “I’m going to let that one slide,” calm and even, “but if there’s any more I’m going to walk out.”

Harry probably had that coming. He’s still got a hundred emotions swirling inside of him, though, and anger is definitely one of them. It’s the one that makes him squeeze Louis’ hips a little harder, surging back down to kiss him again, implicit agreement in the movement. Harry’s not a good person, and he’s not going to let Louis walk out of here unfucked, no matter how many things he’s feeling. Not when Louis has put sex on the table for the first time.

It doesn’t take long before Louis has lost himself in the kiss. To be honest, Harry is having a hard time remembering exactly why he was so angry in the first place – Louis is all but naked underneath him, skin exposed, letting Harry touch him, feel him, do everything except bite him. And don’t get him wrong, Harry wants to bite Louis, almost more than anything, but he can deal with putting it off for now if it means he gets to have this in the meantime.

“Get naked,” Louis demands, squeezing a hand between them and groping at Harry’s cock. It’s an order, and Harry has never taken well to those, but he can make an exception for this particular boy.

Harry strips himself all the way down, not bothering to leave his pants on, and doesn’t waste another second before going for Louis’. Louis doesn’t try to stop him, making a soft, satisfied noise in the back of his throat and lifting his hips to help.

Then, finally, they’re both naked. They’re both naked together for the first time, and Harry intends to spend at least a full minute staring at Louis, drinking in every inch of him, committing it to memory in case Louis doesn’t let him have this again for a while, ogling every freckle, every curve, every perfection and imperfection – 

A tube of lube hits him in the chest. Harry blinks down at it, almost dumbfounded, and barely manages to wrap his fingers around it before Louis is drawing his knee up, making room.

It’s probably a move he’s used on other people, one of many in his repertoire, and for once Harry doesn’t care. He has the entire night to pull moves, noises, words out of Louis that he’s never given anyone else.

Still. That’s not the way this is going to go down.

“You want it like that?” Harry murmurs, swiping at Louis’ bottom lip with his teeth, scraping gently. His regular teeth, fangs still safely tucked away. “A couple fingers and then my cock, fucking you good and hard?”

Louis licks at his lip, chasing the hurt with his tongue. “Sounds good to me.”

“No,” Harry says, relishing in the way the word feels coming off his tongue. Seems like it’s about time he was the one deciding how things are going to go.

“No?” Louis repeats. He gives Harry’s cock a gentle squeeze. It’s manipulative, cunning because he’s well aware of exactly how much Harry wants him.

It’s Harry’s turn to decide how things are going to go, though, and he’s not going to give it up. “Turn over.”

He leans up to give Louis just enough space to do so. “Would’ve thought you’d want it missionary so you could stare at my pulse while you fuck me,” Louis says, but he’s obeying, turning over so he’s arse up.

If they were doing it missionary it would take every ounce of willpower Harry has to keep himself from sinking his teeth into that pulse, letting blood spill out over his tongue and fill his belly, keep him warm and full.

That’s not what they’re doing. They’re also not about to have penetrative sex, either, though. Not quite yet. They have the entire night for that, after all.

“I wanted to have a taste of you since that very first night we met,” Harry says conversationally, kneeling between Louis’ spread thighs and drinking in the view beneath him. “At the time it was strange, and you didn’t even realize it. Had dozens of other people in my bed who looked like that mask you had on, fragile and weak, submissive, and I thought I was over that phase. Into something different.”

Louis squirms, getting an elbow under his chest and pushing himself up. Harry shoves him back down absently, pinning him flat against the mattress and leaving his hand there, spread out in the center of Louis’ back. “Took me about ten minutes to realize that the boy who looked like he wanted to be broken under someone’s hands wasn’t really you,” Harry continues. “Hands.”

Fumblingly, Louis offers up his wrists, the angle awkward and uncomfortable. Harry doesn’t care. Louis is literally a sex demon, Harry is going to bend him however he wants. Louis’ body is made to take it.

Right now, the way Harry wants to make Louis bend involves binding his wrists behind his back. Harry is under no illusion that Louis wouldn’t be able to get out of it if he really wanted to, not with the scarce supplies Harry has handy. To actually keep him there Harry would need something a lot stronger than the tie he’s going to use.

He grabs the tie from the bedside table, looping it around Louis’ wrists, tying it tightly, securely, without bothering to ask if it’s too tight. He would be able to smell it if it was cutting off the blood circulation to Louis’ wrists.

“I still want to taste you,” Harry says, leaning back to admire his handiwork. Louis’ arms are pulled taut behind him, putting a bit of pressure on his shoulders. Nothing too much, but it’s enough that the flex of his muscles are he struggles to orient himself on the bed is almost obscene. 

“Don’t bite me,” Louis reminds him. He’s slurring his words a little, sheets bunched up underneath him. It’s easy to see how much this is affecting him, every little shake, every little tremor obvious and pretty. Harry’s having a lot of sex thoughts and he doesn’t bother trying to disguise any of them, lets them hang in the space between them. Doesn’t matter how hungry Louis actually is, Harry is going to make sure he’s well fed.

Speaking of feeding. “There’s a lot of different ways to taste someone,” Harry says, dragging his thumb between Louis’ arse cheeks, only slipping between them with the tip. Not far enough down to actually be touching his hole. It’s an obvious gesture, one that’s meant to be equal parts warning and promise. Harry’s going to taste every inch of him before this night is over, and it’ll have to be enough until Louis lets him taste his blood.

“Little presumptuous for a first date, don’t you think?” Louis asks. He’s still breathless, still bound, nowhere to go unless Harry lets him, and Harry’s had _enough_.

“Stop,” he says firmly, drawing his hand back and letting it snap forward quick and sharp, echoing with a crack through the entire room.

Louis gasps, shuddering underneath his hand, squirming like he can’t decide whether he wants to pull away or push into it. Harry makes the decision for him, spanking him again another three times before Louis can manage to get out a single syllable.

It feels good. It feels _righteous_ , finally giving Louis exactly what he’s been goading Harry into for the past two months, and Harry relishes in the feeling, the sting in his palm, the heat of Louis’ bare flesh under his hand. This won’t be the last time they do this.

That’s all Harry gives him for now, though. As pleasing as it is to listen to Louis’ choked off gasps every time Harry’s palm lands against his skin, Harry did promise him something else. Something wetter.

He uses both hands to tug Louis’ arsecheeks apart, looking at what’s hidden between them. His breath feels like it’s been punched out of his chest, and he doesn’t need it, not really, but it leaves him reeling regardless. This is what he’s been working towards for the past few months, and if he can’t have it exactly the way he wants it this will be enough. For now.

He doesn’t waste much time looking, doesn’t want to give Louis the opportunity to get his own breath back. Leans down instead, licking a broad stripe over Louis’ hole, wet and thorough. 

It earns him an immediate reaction. Louis tenses up, his entire body going taut enough that Harry can actually feel it, but it’s only for a second before he’s melting back into the mattress. More than that, though, Louis moans, deep in the back of his throat, like he hadn’t meant for it to be so loud.

Harry’s fangs yearn to pierce his gums, drop down into his mouth, sink through the thin barrier of Louis’ skin until all he tastes is blood. It wouldn’t even matter where his teeth ended up, so long as they get buried somewhere in Louis’ body.

He resists, licking at Louis’ hole again instead. Louis doesn’t make quite the same noise, but another one escapes him anyway, keening and soft this time. The sound of his breath is coming fast and ragged above Harry’s head, almost panting. Harry licks him again, curling his tongue this time, and then keeps licking, over and over until his jaw is sore.

Somewhere in the midst of that, Louis’ noises get a distinct sobbing quality to them, and that is exactly what Harry was waiting for. The lube is hard to find with his tongue buried in Louis’ arse, and it takes a few minutes to accomplish. Harry pops it open and coats a few fingers liberally, still dragging his tongue wet and rough over Louis’ hole. It takes him a few more minutes before he feels like he’s gotten enough for now, long enough that the lube is starting to go tacky on his skin, and he sits up somewhat reluctantly.

“Put some tongue in your arse and you turn so agreeable,” Harry comments, pressing the lube into Louis’ hands, careful to avoid the ends of the tie dangling between his wrists, and makes sure to close Louis’ fingers around the bottle before letting go. “Hold onto this for me, baby. Don’t let go until I tell you to.”

Louis’ hole is all but glistening with wet, soaked with Harry’s saliva, and it doesn’t take any effort at all to slip a finger inside of him.

Immediately, Harry sucks in a breath. Louis is hot inside, tight, feels so fucking good Harry almost can’t stand it. He must have been sent here to punish Harry for every bad deed he’s ever done.

“Fuck,” they both breathe at the same time, and Harry watches as Louis pushes back onto his finger, until it’s all the way inside him.

Harry’s cock is making itself known very vehemently. It’s a throbbing, persistent ache between his legs, and it wants to be buried in that tight heat instead of his finger.

It’s going to get there. Harry ignores it for now, squeezing at Louis’ thigh with his free hand, fucking Louis with that one finger for a few seconds before adding another. Eventually, it’s going to get there, and for now Harry will just have to ignore the yearning he feels. This is something, no matter how much Louis will insist that it’s not.

“Every part of you wants me,” Harry murmurs out loud, eyes fixed on the spot where his fingers are disappearing into Louis’ body. He’s silky hot on the inside, smooth as he moves, pushes back against Harry’s hand, wanton and desperate. “Even your brain wants me, sweetheart, I don’t know why you don’t just _listen_ to yourself.”

He punches his fingers in again, harder this time, drawing out a sharp, bitten off noise. “Imagine what it would be like if you just let yourself have it instead of running away all the time. You’re not some scared little – ” Harry stops himself with a deep, frustrated breath. “I could give you everything if you let me.”

He blinks, and he’s flat on his back on the bed. Louis is on top of him, reaching down to curl his fingers around Harry’s cock and start stroking him. The tie is nowhere to be seen. Louis moved fast enough that he must have used his magic to do it, and as unfair as that is it makes Harry’s cock throb a little harder.

“Do you know what it would be like, the two of us together?” Louis demands. He’s sitting astride Harry’s hips, knees pressing down against the mattress, and he’s easily the most beautiful thing Harry’s ever seen, hair mussed, cheeks flushed. Harry’s fangs have descended into his mouth, pricking against his tongue as he swallows. 

“I know you’ve pictured it a thousand times before, but do you _really_ know what it would be like?” His hand is fast as he wanks Harry, grip a shade too tight. Harry’s going to get there regardless. “Because I do, Harry. It’d be chaos and destruction. It would be anything but love. We would destroy each other.”

Harry would give anything to be destroyed by this boy. This beautiful, powerful, stubborn boy. Harry wants him. Harry wants every inch of him, and he doesn’t want to ever let him go.

Louis’ touch feels like heaven as he reaches back for Harry’s cock, lining them up so he can start sinking down onto it. He feels so good Harry loses himself in it, holding Louis’ hips so tightly the bruises are going to be nothing short of colourful. Around him, the room is spinning in a haze of darkness and electricity. Louis doesn’t make any noise until he’s all the way down, body a lovely shape in the darkness. He’s tight and warm around Harry’s cock, a sweet little weight in Harry’s lap, and the only thing that could make this better would be the taste of his blood on Harry’s tongue.

It takes Harry a minute to realize that the reason the room is so dark is because the lights are off. They weren’t off before. “Power’s out,” he says. His tone sounds a little dreamy, even to him.

Louis bends down to put his mouth against Harry’s, not quite a kiss. He tastes good anyway, not blood but something sweet. Candy, maybe. Harry’s fangs are heavy in his mouth, demanding to be used. Resisting that urge is hard. It’s especially hard with his cock buried in Louis’ arse.

“It’s not out,” Louis murmurs against Harry’s mouth. “You shattered all the bulbs.”

That doesn’t make sense. Harry doesn’t have time to examine why before Louis is sitting back up again and starting to move, bouncing on his cock like he was made for exactly this. It’s only about five seconds before Harry can’t take it anymore, surging up and flipping them over so he’s on top. He presses Louis down into the bed, holds him there as he picks up the pace.

“I’d give you everything,” Harry says, looking down at Louis’ face as he fucks him, hands wrapped around Louis’ thighs to hold him in the exact right position. He knows that Louis probably thinks he’s only saying it because they’re having sex, or because Harry literally doesn’t know what he’s saying.

The more he thinks about it, the more he means it. It’s hard, being so sure about someone he still knows so little about. Harry is, though. And he’s having a hard time believing that Louis isn’t.

“Shut up,” Louis hisses, head lolling back against the pillows. He’s clutching at Harry’s shoulders like he’s still trying to control the pace, and Harry isn’t having that. He slows down, gathering up both of Louis’ wrists in one hand and shoving them into the pillow above his head.

“I’ll tell you every goddamn thing I want,” Harry grits out, shifting his hips. One of Louis’ thighs slides down a little, skin warm and sweat slick. “You’re just going to have to be quiet and take it.”

It’s hard to concentrate when Louis feels this good, blood warm with no barrier between them. It’s fine that way, Harry knows – there’s no risk of anything. Harry’s clean, and even if he wasn’t, Louis’ magic prevents him from getting any kind of sexually transmitted infection. That’s one of the things the lore has been certain about, no matter where it’s been sourced from. And if it wasn’t true, Louis would have done something about it. He is the one who initiated all of this, after all.

“Just shut up and get fucked, is that what you want?” Louis demands, trying to pull his hands free. Between the two of them, though, when it comes down to sheer strength, Louis is never going to win. The only reason he wins their fights is because he plays dirty and uses his magic, not because he’s stronger than Harry. “Want me to pretend to be sweet and coy, let you have your way with me?”

He’s still not getting it. Harry doesn’t have the brainpower to find the words to explain it to him right now, not when he’s finally inside of Louis. So he says the only thing that’s running through his mind, the thing that’s been the most prevalent lately. A thought he could press into Louis’ head if he had enough time, make him believe it that way.

“Want you to believe me when I say that I’d fuck up everything in my life to get to have you,” Harry says. 

It’s something he doesn’t want or need an answer to. He doesn’t give Louis a chance to answer, picking up his rhythm again, faster and harder this time. Instead of saying anything, Louis makes a noise, sweet and nearly winded, arching up into the movement the best he can. He looks perfect like this, beneath Harry, wrists still in Harry’s grasp. He feels perfect like this.

Harry’s soul surges with the need to make Louis come. He rises up onto his knees, hauling Louis’ thighs up until his arse is almost completely off the bed, and gives it to him harder, faster. Energy is spilling out of him, dark and restless as he stares down at Louis’ face, at the way he’s gasping out Harry’s name, fingernails clawing at the spots of Harry’s hands that he can reach. He’s squirming, clenching down tight around Harry’s cock, his own bobbing against his belly with the force of Harry’s thrusts. Harry’s had enough sex to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what it looks like when someone is going to come. And Louis is going to come.

“I’d give you everything if you wanted it,” Harry says, low and sincere. It’s not hyperbolic sex talk. Louis makes a high, breathy noise, squeezing his eyes closed. His mouth opens on a sob as he starts coming, completely untouched. Just from the way Harry’s cock feels in his arse.

Harry’s barely conscious of himself after that, muscles straining as he forces himself to hold back, not to give in to the urge to bite. The need to bite. He can hear Louis’ blood strumming in his veins, the rapid beat of his heart. The smell of his blood, even through his skin. He wants it. The only thing stopping him from taking it is the throb of his cock, buried in the sweetest arse he’s ever seen.

“I’d drink from you,” Harry whispers, eyes fastened to the rapid flutter of Louis’ pulse in his neck, unable to look away. He’s going to come. Drags a hand free and presses it against that pulse, bearing down a little. Just enough to really feel it. “If you let me. I’d make it so good for you, sweetheart.”

Before he knows it, Louis has a hand free, fingers laid gently overtop of Harry’s on his throat. He adds to the pressure, lips pink and parted when Harry looks back at his face. It’s too much. It’s all Harry needs to come, the intensity of it so overwhelming that all he can feel is Louis’ pulse under his fingers for several minutes.

All around them, the lights are flickering now. It takes Harry a while to remember how to breathe, looking down at the prettiest face he’s ever seen, wanting so much more from him. He doesn’t have a single coherent thought in his head, the weak throb of his cock still in Louis’ arse too consuming.

Louis’ fingers are hooked gently around Harry’s. If he wanted to, he could have been gone by now. The fact that he’s still here is sending all of Harry’s senses into overdrive, trying to come up with a way to keep him here. To keep him exactly like this, warm and sated.

“I know,” Louis murmurs. Harry has no idea what he’s talking about, watching the obscene way Louis’ lips part to let the words pass. He looks like a dream, and Harry’s too close to all of his instincts. He sinks back down, letting Louis’ arse come to rest against the bed, and catches Louis’ mouth in a kiss.

It feels as though it says something, that Louis lets him. That the only thing he does is tip his head back with a gentle sigh and open up to it, letting himself be kissed slowly and thoroughly. He could be anywhere he wanted right now. He’s proven that Harry can’t stop him from escaping, can’t find him when he does. Him being here right now is a _choice_.

Harry’s undead heart is trying to beat its way right out of his chest. He’s never had sex as good as this before. He doesn’t think that has anything to do with Louis being an incubus.

“Stay with me,” Harry says. Everything still feels electric but foggy now too, like running through a dangerous mist. “Just for tonight.”

With his hand still on Louis’ throat, he can feel the way Louis’ breath hitches. Just for a second, so quickly Harry might not have noticed if he couldn’t feel it.

“Okay,” Louis agrees, sweet and easy, and for some reason Harry trusts him. He pulls out carefully, easing himself down onto his side and gathering Louis up into his arms. Louis accepts it, pressing his fingers flat against Harry’s chest, and lets Harry kiss him until he falls asleep.

In the morning, Louis is gone. The sheets on his side of the bed have long since gone cold. Harry spends a long time with his hand pressed to them regardless, breathing in the phantom scent of Louis’ blood.

A few hours later, Harry’s in the middle of a pile of paperwork, glass of scotch by his elbow, when there’s a knock at his office door. He sighs, rubbing his forehead with his index finger, and calls, “Come in.”

Liam enters, closes the door behind himself. He doesn’t wait for an invitation to seat himself, propping his elbows up on the desk as he settles into a chair. Harry’s immediately wary. “What is it?”

“Your boy is here,” Liam says, turning Harry’s laptop around and clicking a few buttons before turning it back. 

He’s pulled up the security camera feed. For a second, Harry doesn’t see anything. Then his gaze narrows in on one of the cameras at the front entrance, where Louis is arguing with a security guard, hands gestulative and wild.

“Should I radio them, tell them to just let him in?” Liam asks. Harry’s still watching the screen, watching the way the fight goes out of Louis abruptly, the way he starts removing his weapons one by one and dropping them into a basket.

Harry watches the pile amass, bigger than he would have expected. “No,” he decides. “Let him be treated like a regular person for once.” He continues watching the camera, barely noticing when Liam leaves the room. Louis finishes ridding himself of his weapons, body language defensive and broad. For a second, Harry laments not springing for the audio on the cameras - he would love to hear the swearing Louis is undoubtedly allowing to spew from his mouth.

De-armed, the guard allows Louis to enter the club. Harry follows him camera to camera, watching the way his hips swing as he walks, putting on some kind of show. It’s unclear whether the show is for Harry or the patrons of the club, and it doesn’t become any clearer as Louis makes his way to the bar, settling onto a stool and propping his elbows up. Orders himself a drink and settles in to wait, growing visibly more impatient as the seconds tick by.

It’s almost fascinating to watch. He must know Harry’s watching him somehow - which is a neat little trick Harry really wants to be in on - but not coming out to meet him or sending someone to bring him into the back. 

“I’m not your little puppet on a string,” Harry murmurs, touching his thumb to the corner of the screen. Louis is dressed in jeans and a thin t-shirt, regular, every day clothes. Not clubbing clothes because he didn’t come here to _dance_.

No, he came here for one thing and one thing only.

Harry keeps watching as Mina serves Louis his drink and then goes to attend to other customers. Louis sips at his drink, cheeks hollowing around the straw, and it’s all Harry can do to remain in his seat and keep watching. It’s a good visual - Louis is so fucking pretty even when he’s not trying to be, scowling down at his drink and tapping his fingers impatiently. Harry wants to go out and get him, but even more than that he wants to keep watching, see how long it takes before Louis gets too impatient and comes to find Harry himself.

Someone settles at the bar next to Louis. Harry barely even notices, watching Louis toy with the coaster underneath his drink, shoulders tense under the thin material of his shirt. It seems like neither of them are expecting it when the guy sitting next to Louis starts talking to him.

Harry’s expecting Louis to brush the guy off. He’s come here for one reason and one reason only, and that reason begins with the letter ‘H’ and ends with ‘arry.’ 

Louis doesn’t. No, Louis turns his entire body into the guy, putting his back to the camera, and starts flirting.

Harry doesn’t even register that he’s moving until he’s stalking through the hallways, making his way to the bar. Blood is thrumming through his veins, anger coiled in the pit of his stomach. Louis doesn’t get to flirt with other people, much less flirt with other people in Harry’s club.

It’s not quite peak hours yet, so the club isn’t at capacity. Harry moves through the crowd easily, gazed fixed on the back of Louis’ head, fingers curled into his palms to help curb the desire to wrap them around Louis’ throat and wrench him out of his seat as soon as they’re close enough.

Instead, Harry lays his hand on the center of Louis’ back, fingers still tucked into his palm, and says, “Louis.”

“Harry,” Louis says, faux-pleasantly, using that tone of voice that means he’s feeling stroppy and resistant. “Have you met my friend?”

Harry has no interest in meeting his friend. Bends his head to say into Louis’ ear, “Do you really _want_ me to meet your friend, sweetheart? You know I don’t share well.”

The shiver that runs through Louis’ frame has nothing to do with him being an incubus. That shiver is all Louis, the way he reacts to Harry. Harry _knows_ that. He knows it. That’s why he slips his hand down, slips a finger into Louis’ belt loop and pulls him away.

Louis goes. Louis goes easily, even. It doesn’t take any convincing, any cajoling, any amount of effort on Harry’s part whatsoever.

Yeah, Louis definitely came here to get laid. There’s no doubt about it. Luckily, Harry is willing to give it to him.

He leads Louis through the maze of tight hallways back to his office. No one tries to stop them along the way, although they do get a few knowing looks from some of the staff. Harry pays them no mind, doesn’t care that they know exactly what’s about to happen. Everyone knows that an incubus can only go a certain amount of time without feeding, and Harry is just horny. He wants to get off, and he wants to get off with Louis. He’s about to make that happen.

They make it to Harry’s office easily, and Harry shuts the door behind them firmly before locking it. None of his staff would ever enter without knocking – they all know better – but there’s no way Harry would be okay with anyone else seeing Louis naked. It’s something he would never have thought to do before Louis. He would have trusted that none of his staff would even think to enter without knocking first, and that would have been the end of it. He’s never felt this way before – this irrational possessiveness.

“So,” Louis starts, breaking free the second the door is locked and strolling around to the other side of Harry’s desk, plopping himself down into Harry’s chair, “Did you enjoy putting on that little show of dominance out there, or do you feel the need to continue it?”

He levels Harry with a bored look, kicking his feet up onto his desk. It’s disrespectful, something Harry would never tolerate from one of his employees. It’s something Harry wouldn’t tolerate from most people. Period.

Allowing Louis to get away with it sends an itch through Harry’s skin. He does his best to ignore it, leaning back against the closed door and crossing his arms over his chest. It’s starting to seem like Louis has only come here to get a rise out of him. Harry’s determined not to give in.

“You’re well aware of what real dominance looks like,” Harry tells him, grinding the heel of his shoe against the floor. It eases the desire to go over there and show Louis exactly what real dominance looks like, if only a little. “If you think that was it, that’s your problem, not mine.”

For a second, Louis remains silent. He doesn’t look particularly angry, staring at Harry from across the room. He looks like he’s trying to make up his mind about something.

“Fine,” he says shortly. He doesn’t add anything else, letting his feet thump down onto the floor. It looks as though he’s going to get up and walk away. As much as Harry doesn’t want him to leave, he’s not going to try to stop him. Not right now. Not anymore.

That had been a particularly hard decision to come to. It’s proving to be an even harder instinct to break. Harry’s working on it, though, and he’s fairly confident that he’ll be able to let Louis slip by without putting a single hand on him.

Louis doesn’t get up, though. Instead, he leans forward, fooling around with Harry’s laptop, still sitting open on his desk. It’s a move that drips of familiarity, of ease. Of the peace of being able to touch someone’s things without permission.

Harry blinks slowly. It’s his own heartbeat that’s kicking up a notch, staring at the scene unfolding in front of him. He’s been trying not to prevent Louis from escaping because it’s become apparent that Louis is always going to come back, but this is something else entirely. Every time Louis has found him, he’s had a reason for it, no matter how thinly veiled it was. Every time.

The air between them feels too fragile for Harry to say anything about it. To ask about it, or comment on it. The last thing he wants to do is chase Louis away when this, somehow, feels like progress. Carefully, Harry pushes himself away from the door and crosses the room. With every step he takes, he watches as Louis’ posture becomes more tense, more strained. Something Harry doesn’t understand is going on here, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

He sits down in one of the chairs opposite his desk chair. Louis is still looking at the laptop, gaze fixed on it as though it’s going to save him from having to say anything. Harry reaches out and snags the corner of a pile of paperwork he’s been meaning to get to, pulling it towards himself. They can sit here in silence together. Admittedly, Harry’s quite rusty when it comes to dating, but that’s something people do, right? Sit in silence together? The fragile peace between them isn’t going to last if they can’t even sit in silence together.

With that in mind, Harry looks down at his stack of paperwork. Louis pushes a pen towards him gingerly. It’s as good as acceptance of their temporary truce, so Harry picks it up.

He doesn’t get lost in his paperwork, not quite. That’d be next to impossible with Louis’ heartbeat echoing in his ears, pounding away steadily. It’s nice, though, sitting in his office quietly with Louis across from him. Even if Harry is technically on the wrong side of his desk. He’s promised Louis everything he has, and if Louis wants to start with an office chair Harry isn’t going to try to stop him.

In the back of his mind, Harry can’t stop wondering why Louis is here. Why he decided to come here in the first place. All of his excuses are rather thin, but this time he didn’t even bother to say one. Just showed up in Harry’s club and started flirting with some stranger until Harry came to haul him away.

Maybe he’s missed Harry as much as Harry has missed him. The thought makes him smile, aiming it down towards his paperwork so Louis won’t notice. It’s ridiculous, how far gone he is for this creature who’s barely even given him a taste of his blood. Harry’s the one with compelling abilities, and yet he’s fallen so far under Louis’ spell that he couldn’t find the exit if he wanted to.

“Are you thinking about me?” Louis asks abruptly, drawing Harry out of his thoughtful trance.

When Harry looks up, he notices the way Louis is tapping a pen against Harry’s keyboard. It’s not fast, or erratic, but there’s still something antsy about it. Something uncertain.

Instead of saying yes, Harry asks, “Why?”

Louis’ pen comes to a rest on the keyboard. “Never mind,” he says, and goes back to whatever he was doing before. 

There’s no mistaking the faint flush on his cheeks, though. Even if Harry couldn’t smell the surge of blood rising to the surface, he can see it. Louis isn’t pale, not like Harry is, but he blushes like he is. Like he’s a fucking porcelain doll or something, something fragile that needs to be treated with care.

Jesus fuck. Harry really needs to eat. He’s starting to go off the rails a little bit.

“Okay,” he agrees. He can’t convince himself to stop staring at that blush for a long time, though. Not until Louis leaves, rather abruptly getting out of Harry’s chair and walking away. And not even after that.

Harry keeps thinking about it all day. It doesn’t matter what he’s doing – his mind will drift back to memories of last night. The way Louis felt, the way he tasted when Harry kissed him. The strikingly vulnerable way he hadn’t run away until the morning.

The only thing that could have made it better is if Louis had have let Harry bite him. There’s a lot of vamp chasers in this city, people who get off on being bitten so hard that they search it out like a drug addict. Louis isn’t going to turn out to be one of them, Harry is pretty sure. He’s also pretty sure that Louis will experience the same kind of intense, overwhelming pleasure, though. There’s a pull between them that Louis can’t deny. Harry would bet his entire fortune on it having something to do with the blood.

Needless to say, Harry doesn’t get much work done that day. Not even after Louis leaves his office as silently as he’d come into it. Normally, Harry starts his day after noon and works until about eight or so, and then has a drink while overseeing the club. He bypasses the last part of his routine tonight, heading straight back up to the penthouse. He doesn’t feel like being around other people right now. Not when he can still hear the phantom echo of Louis’ heartbeat.

He pulls a bag of blood out of the fridge, popping it open and pouring it directly into a glass. Usually, if he’s going to drink his blood cold it’s paired with alcohol. He doesn’t have the energy to warm it up tonight, though, drifting aimlessly across the kitchen in his socked feet.

The blood tastes fine. Bagged blood tasted better when it’s been heated, but it still tastes fine when it’s not. It’ll never compare to the real thing, but getting the real thing would mean going down to the club and finding someone amenable to that. And Harry’s not got that kind of patience tonight. So bagged blood it is.

He’s turned on the telly and zoned out to some sort of cooking show when it becomes apparent that he’s no longer alone. Any of his employees would have made themselves known long before now, and they definitely would have knocked before entering.

There’s really only one person it can be. Harry remains where he is, an arm stretched across the back of the sofa, and doesn’t look away from the telly.

It’s no surprise when he gets a knife pressed against his throat. Harry breathes out steadily and remains still. His muscles have gone tense with the instinct to fight. That’s something he can’t help, but he can hold himself back. 

“Hello, sweetheart,” Harry says. The knife isn’t silver, so there’s none of that dull ache that comes along with it. He’s under no illusions that Louis won’t be able to do just as much damage as if it was. “I missed you.”

The blade of the knife presses down a little harder. Harry keeps breathing at the same slow, even pace, ignoring the knife. The knife is a welcome change to the monotony of the telly still droning on in the background.

“Shut up,” Louis says, snarling out the words. He sounds so delightfully angry. Harry’s had a taste of that biting, vicious anger now, and he wants more of it. All of it. He’s never been too good at sharing.

“Make me,” Harry suggests idly. He doesn’t think Louis is actually going to do it, so it’s a surprise when Louis does. Crashing his way around so he’s straddling Harry’s lap, Louis slams their mouths together. The kiss is bruising, hard and ruthless. Harry barely refrains from surging up to take control over it.

The knife hasn’t slipped even a millimeter. Harry takes a second to be impressed by that, digging his fingertips into the couch cushions. He wants to touch Louis, to put his hands all over Louis’ body until he’s screaming from how good it feels. Holding back that urge is almost as hard as holding back the urge to sink his fangs into Louis’ skin.

By the time Louis tears his mouth away, Harry’s cock is fully hard and straining against the fly of his trousers. This time, he can’t stop himself from doing the chasing, reaching out with one hand to try to pull Louis’ face back.

“No,” Louis says. With the knife still pressed against his throat, Harry doesn’t have much of a choice. He obeys, dropping his hand down to rest beside his thigh. “I can’t – I didn’t come here for this.”

The way he’s still sitting in Harry’s lap says otherwise. Harry doesn’t point that out, instead tapping his fingers gently against the soft velvet of the cushions. “What did you come here for, then?”

It seems like it should be a fairly simple question. Louis huffs, tucking his knife away quickly. The movement leaves Harry free to do anything he likes, put his hands anywhere he likes. He sits still. He’s not going to jeopardize this. Louis’ weight is much too pleasant for that.

Silence stretches on as Louis struggles to find something to say. Harry watches, enraptured with the play of emotions filtering across Louis’ face. There’s no allure to it, no magic present. It’s just Louis’ face and the way he looks, breathtakingly indecisive. Harry can’t imagine another scenario in which Louis might have looked like this.

“I came to make sure you understand that last night didn’t mean anything,” Louis says eventually. He’s good at lying. A normal person wouldn’t be able to tell – he has none of the most common tells.

Harry’s not a normal person, though. He’s a vampire, and he can hear the way Louis’ heartbeat ticks up. He can smell the sudden rush of blood pounding through Louis’ veins. It’s only because they’re so close. If Louis was across the room, he would be able to put his guard up and hide all of that stuff. His magic can overpower Harry’s most of the time. It’s been a fascinating discovery, that. A little wounding at time, but mostly fascinating. Harry can’t think of another type of creature capable of besting him so frequently and so thoroughly.

“Okay,” Harry says. Achingly slowly, he slides his hand up Louis’ arm and across his chest until he can thumb at the pulse in Louis’ neck. It’s not meant to be a pointed judgment about that statement – it’s just impossible to resist the urge anymore.

Louis’ pulse jumps under the touch. Grimly, Louis says, “That doesn’t change anything.”

He’s right about that. It _doesn’t_ change anything. This might have started with a one-way fascination, but it’s evolved into something much more now. There’s no doubt in Harry’s mind that Louis can’t stay away from him just as much as Harry can’t stay away from Louis. The only thing Louis’ physical reaction is doing is providing proof for that feeling.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” Harry tells him. As hard as it is, he manages to slip his hand away from Louis’ pulse, resting it against the nape of his neck instead.

Louis rolls his eyes, irritation clear on his face. For half a second, Harry thinks he might pull the knife back out. It seems like something Louis would do.

“I’m not yours,” Louis says. For someone who’s not Harry’s, he’s sure as hell not doing anything about the hand Harry’s got on him. “I had sex with you once. There’s no world in which that makes it okay for you to treat me like this.”

Harry waits, but Louis doesn’t continue. “Treat you like what?”

“Like I’m yours,” Louis snaps, shuffling back a bit. He doesn’t get off Harry’s lap. If he wanted Harry to take him seriously, he’d get out of his lap. “Like you can touch me however you want, like you can call me whatever you want. I’m not your sweetheart. I’m not your anything.”

Harry disagrees. He doesn’t think that’s news to either of them. “If you want me to stop, all you have to do is stop coming back here.”

The words slip out of his mouth before he can think them through. He only says them because he’s tired and they’re true. The more time they spend together, the more it becomes apparent that this isn’t something only Harry feels. If Louis truly wants out, all he has to do is walk away.

“You say that,” Louis says, soft and silky, “but if I tried to leave right now, what would you do? You’d probably try to stop me.”

His magic is rising up all around them, dark and intoxicating. Has it always felt like this? Harry’s brain feels fuzzy. He can’t remember.

Concentrating on the issue at hand is hard. It takes a lot of effort to make his brain focus. “Why don’t you try it and find out.” 

It’s less of a threat than it sounds. Things are happening in Harry’s brain that he’s having a hard time explaining, connections being made, conclusions being formed. To him, it feels entirely logical to say that all Louis needs to do is leave and stay gone. Harry won’t forget him, probably not ever, but he’ll respect Louis’ decision.

Abruptly, Louis slides off Harry’s lap, settling onto the couch beside him. He plants his feet firmly on the ground and stares at the telly. Harry’s having a hard time understanding what’s going on here.

After a few minutes, when Louis doesn’t say anything, Harry asks, “Would you like a drink?”

“I’m not a blood-sucking lunatic like you,” Louis snaps immediately. It seems like he’d been waiting for Harry to say something.

The venom of it makes the corners of Harry’s lips turn up, undeniably amused. It’s been a long time since someone has spoken to him like that. Someone other than Louis, that is. Harry doesn’t make a point of surrounding himself with people who all fall in line quietly, but that’s the way things have worked out.

“I do have things other than blood bags,” Harry points out. When Louis sat down, he’d done it without leaving any space between them, despite the expanse of Harry’s couch. “I even have food, if you’d like some.”

“Blood free food?” Louis asks scornfully.

God, what a venomous little thing he is when he’s not trying to trick Harry into letting him go. Harry can’t tell whether it’s meant to be off-putting or not. If it is, he’s failing.

“Blood free food,” Harry confirms. “Are you hungry?”

Unbidden, the question slips out with its double meaning. Harry doesn’t care to take it back. He’d give Louis anything his appetite demands. Especially if it’s sex.

“No,” Louis says. Barely a second goes by before he amends, “I could go for some crisps and a beer.”

“Alright,” Harry says. He pushes himself off the couch and heads into a kitchen, pulling a bowl down from the cupboard for the crisps. Part of him wonders what Louis would have done if Harry didn’t have any crisps. He probably would have walked out.

It only takes a minute to gather the items Louis had requested. He’s sitting in the same spot when Harry returns, hands folded together in his lap. Harry had half expected him to have disappeared in the time it took to gather his snacks.

“Thanks,” Louis says, taking the bottle of beer and the bowl. It’s a grudging gratitude, something Harry would laugh at if he didn’t think it would scare Louis away.

There’s a lot of things Harry wants to do that will scare Louis away. His plan is to ease into them. As far as plans go, it’s a decent one. Time will tell if Harry is able to keep to it. “You’re welcome.”

They sit in silence, watching telly together. It takes Harry a long time to relax into the cushions, forcing himself to relax a muscle at a time. He can’t stop expecting Louis to run for the door the second he manages it. Everything that’s happened since Louis showed up tonight has felt like a fever dream, something Harry’s imagination made up. He can’t quite believe any of it is happening.

Eventually, Harry does manage to unwind. Louis is warm beside him, so close that their thighs are pressed together. Harry can smell the hot, coppery scent of his blood. It’s almost as intoxicating as if it was sliding down his throat. He can imagine the rich, heady taste of it. It must taste as good as it smells. No one has ever smelt this good to him before. 

“You didn’t get yourself anything,” Louis says suddenly, drawing Harry out of his daydream about Louis’ blood.

Harry looks down at his empty hands despite the fact that he already knows they’re empty. “No. I had a bite earlier.”

Beside him, Louis flinches so badly Harry can feel it. Words spring to his lips, reassurances about exactly what he meant. Harry forces himself to swallow them back. Correcting Louis’ clear assumption isn’t going to do him any good.

“You drank from someone?” Louis demands. His fingers tighten around the neck of the beer bottle.

This is a reaction that could mean anything. It’s a reaction Harry didn’t even consider expecting. “Why do you want to know?”

Louis leans forward abruptly, setting the bottle down on the coffee table with a hard clink. He turns back to face Harry with a glint in his eyes Harry can’t decipher. “You went out there and drank from some bite addicted slag, huh?” he asks, voice low and dangerous.

Harry senses a knife might be coming his way very soon. He finds he doesn’t mind. He leans into the curve of Louis’ body, meeting the challenge. “Would you care if I did?”

Before Harry can even blink, the knife is back in play, pressed low against his stomach. It’s just hard enough for him to feel it, not enough for it to actually start to pierce his skin. Harry curls his fingers into his palm so he won’t try to reach down and yank it out of Louis’ grip. He’s pretty confident that he could get it, but there’s no telling how many other knives Louis has stashed on him right now.

“Why do you think I’d care about something you did?” Louis snarls.

Despite himself, Harry rolls his eyes. Slowly, carefully enough that Louis can see him doing it, Harry puts his hand down to rest a few fingers on the handle of the knife. “You tell me, sweetheart.”

Louis scowls. He doesn’t remove the blade. “Maybe I just like stabbing people with knives. Did you ever think of that?”

“I’ve no doubt that you have an astonishing fondness for knives, darling. How many do you have on you right now?”

It’s a diversion tactic, but Harry is genuinely curious. He doesn’t think Louis would tell him the truth about the number, but he’d like to hear what his answer is anyway.

“Christ, shut up,” Louis says, rolling his eyes back. The press of the blade gets a little lighter. “Are all vamps secretly this annoying? I thought you were all supposed to be dark and mysterious or some shit.”

“I’m a lot of things,” Harry says easily. “Anything you want to know, I’ll tell you.”

He’s pretty sure he means it. At this point in his life, Harry isn’t scared by a lot of things. The sudden honesty gets his undead heart pounding in his chest, sending recycled blood rushing through his veins. It’s a feeling similar to fear. A little more hopeful.

“Well, you shouldn’t,” Louis says, retracting the knife entirely. Harry doesn’t get a chance to see where he puts it before it’s gone. “I’m not going to tell you anything in return.”

Somehow, Harry doesn’t think that’s true. More and more pieces of Louis slip through the longer the spend together. Harry’s beginning to figure out what’s an act and what’s not.

“That’s fine,” Harry says. “I’m beginning to figure things out anyway.”

At that, Louis frowns again. It’s not as intense this time, more wondering. He doesn’t question it, putting a hot little hand against Harry’s chest and pushing him back against the couch. Harry goes without a fight. When it’s the right time, he’ll show Louis exactly how much of a fight he can put up. Now is not the right time. Now is just the beginning.

“I’m going to leave now,” Louis informs him. “If you meant anything you said, you won’t try to stop me.”

“I won’t,” Harry says. Even to him, it sounds like a promise.

It makes Louis frown a little deeper. He stares at Harry for another minute as though he’s trying to figure something out. “Okay,” he says, looking over his shoulder towards the door. He doesn’t take his hand off Harry’s chest.

Tension rises between them. It’s hard for Harry to still stay. His entire body is almost vibrating with the need to do something about it, to give Louis a reminder of what he’s walking away from before he leaves. Something feels fraught between them.

“Okay,” Louis repeats. He turns his attention back to Harry. Harry raises an eyebrow at him, glancing down at Louis’ hand.

It turns out that’s all Louis needed to spark something. He leans forward again, fast but not fast enough that Harry couldn’t avoid him, and kisses him. There’s something different about this kiss, something softer. Almost sweeter. It doesn’t feel like goodbye.

Harry turns into it, cradling the back of Louis’ head with one hand. He keeps the other off of Louis’ body entirely, just in case. Giving him room to make a quick exit if that’s what he chooses to do. Louis doesn’t, letting Harry lick into his mouth with a quiet noise, opening up to it so beautifully that it’s easy to remember he was made for this. That he’s a creature literally made for pleasure. Harry wonders, somewhere in the back of his brain, how long it’s been since anyone saw Louis for something else.

After a few long, sensual moments, Louis is the one who breaks the kiss. He pulls away from it slowly, blinking several times before he pulls himself together enough to push himself up.

It’s the first time Harry watches him walk away without being wounded. He rubs absently at his chest anyway, trying to ease an inexplicable ache.

Later, when Harry gets up off the couch to grab himself another pint of blood, he finds a knife stashed in the kitchen. It’s a silver knife, wedged in between the counter and the fridge. It rattles a little when Harry pulls a drawer open, and that’s the only reason he finds it.

A tad perplexed, Harry pulls it out of its hiding spot. The silver stings at his skin as he examines it, holding it in front of his face as though that’s going to give him a clue. It’s Louis’, of course. Harry has no idea when Louis put it there. Or why Louis put it there.

Still bemused, Harry puts it back. Louis put it there for a reason, even if Harry can’t fathom what it is.

Harry wakes to the too-familiar feeling of silver pressing against his throat. It’s becoming a pattern, he thinks to himself before opening his eyes. He has a hand wrapped around Louis’ wrist, and he has no idea when he put it there. Louis’ bones feel fragile under Harry’s fingers, easily breakable.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Harry says. He hasn’t quite finished blinking the sleep away, fuzziness rolling through his brain like a fog. He supposes this is why Louis left a silver knife in his kitchen.

“Don’t,” Louis hisses. Harry waits, content to lie here beneath the warm weight of Louis’ body, but Louis doesn’t say anything else. His hand is trembling, the blade of the knife threatening to slip and pierce Harry’s skin.

There’s something off about his behaviour. Harry opens his eyes a little wider, trying to figure out what it is.

“Louis,” Harry murmurs. He slides his fingers down to overlap Louis’, trying to tug the knife out of his grasp without nicking himself. Louis seems reluctant to let go, but he doesn’t do anything to stop Harry’s attempt, leaving the two of them struggling uselessly.

“I never should have come here,” Louis says. The words slur together slightly, and Harry finally recognizes his behaviour for what it is. He’s drunk. “That fucking – _pull_ I felt the first time should have been enough to keep me away. You’re too fucking dangerous.”

Harry stops trying to pull the knife away and leaves it where it is, curling his fingers back around Louis’ wrist. It’s not comfortable, but he’s loathe to let go. “I’m not the one brandishing a knife right now, darling.”

As amusing as the statement is, it doesn’t do Harry any good. Louis doesn’t let him take the knife, holding onto it like it’s a lifeline.

“The knife is for protection,” Louis says matter-of-factly. Harry has to wonder whether it’s the knife from the kitchen or if he’s brought another one. Honestly, he could see it going either way. “You don’t give up easily.”

_Neither do you_ , Harry thinks, wryly amused. “Why did you come, then?” he asks patiently. It’s easy to be patient when Louis’ weight is sitting on his hips like this. It would take next to no exertion for Harry to move him, but he’s comfortable here. He doesn’t feel trapped, even with the knife still hovering in the air between them.

Louis blinks slowly, glancing back towards the bedroom door as though he’s just remembered where he is. “I don’t know.”

He came because he’s been drinking, Harry surmises. He can commiserate with that kind of poor judgment. It’s been a long time since he’s felt strongly enough about anyone to commit to that kind of poor judgment, though. This thing between him and Louis is starting to feel more like destiny than poor judgment.

“Alright,” Harry says. An honest answer is a better one than a lie. “Are you tired?”

How much sleep do incubi require? Harry has no idea. The average vampire doesn’t require as much sleep as a human does, but they still sleep. Mostly during the day, but occasionally at night. Harry cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of the clock hanging on the wall. It’s nearly eight in the morning.

“No,” Louis says. Harry doesn’t believe him. Louis’ eyelids are already starting to droop, the knife starting to slip out of his grip. Even if his exhaustion is only due to the alcohol, he still seems like he needs sleep. Harry can oblige him in that.

“Okay,” Harry agrees. This time, Louis lets him tug the knife out of his grip, putting it on the bedside table. That way Louis can still access it easily if he feels the need to. “Why don’t you just lie down with me for a bit, sweetheart? You can leave whenever you want.”

He’s not expecting it to work. He’s expecting Louis to grab the knife and put a hole in Harry’s chest. Somehow, the words work like magic. Louis nods a little, chin dipping slightly. He shifts slowly, easing himself off Harry’s body and onto the bed beside him, curling up small. His back is facing the knife, a sign of trust that Harry isn’t even sure he knows he’s portraying.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” Louis insists sleepily. His eyes are already mostly closed, the picture of innocence. Harry’s nerves are alight with the knowledge of exactly how innocent Louis isn’t.

“Absolutely nothing,” Harry agrees. He strokes a hand along Louis’ bared bicep slowly, fascinated by the feeling of his skin underneath his hand.

“Good,” Louis whispers, pressing his face into Harry’s shoulder. For a second, Harry regrets not going to sleep naked. If there was ever a time, it’d be now. “Don’t go getting your hopes up. Kiss me.”

They’re two completely contradictory statements. Harry obliges, bending his head just enough to be able to catch the corner of Louis’ mouth. Louis sighs, a short, sweet noise that escapes his lips, and turns his head to make it a proper kiss. It’s a kiss that’s clearly not going anywhere, snogging for the sake of snogging. It’s fun and easy, chasing Louis’ quick, clever tongue, and Harry can’t remember the last time he did this. Kissed someone like this while knowing that it wasn’t going anywhere.

The taste of Louis’ mouth reminds him that he hasn’t had anything beyond a single drop of Louis’ blood. The taste of it haunts him, floating through his mind while he sleeps. It makes everything else Harry eats taste unsatisfying. He wants a mouthful of it, wants to drain it directly out of Louis’ body and into his own. His fangs pierce through his gums at the thought of it.

It would be easy to overpower Louis like this. A quick roll and Harry could be on top of him, pinning his wrists down to the bed. It’s a hard impulse to ignore. Harry only manages it because he’s lulled into complacency by the way Louis is kissing him, soft and insistent. He’s probably had a lot of practice, being what he is, but fuck if he’s not good at it.

By the time Louis pulls away with another soft sigh, Harry’s fully hard. He opens his eyes, looking at Louis’ face.

“That’s good,” Louis murmurs, patting Harry’s cheek with a soft hand. “Go to sleep now.”

With that, he closes his eyes. It only takes him a minute to drift off into sleep, breathing going soft and even. Harry watches him sleep, still holding him in his arms, for a long time before his own eyes start closing. When sleep takes him, it takes him quickly and deeply.

It’s late when Harry wakes up. The blackout curtains he has hung across the windows are doing their job, preventing sunlight from streaming in. It’s not so late that the sun has set, but Harry has slept longer than he anticipated. 

It’s no surprise that the other side of the bed is cold and empty. Harry stretches his arm across the cold sheets anyway, laying his hand against the pillow Louis had slept on. He can still smell the scent of Louis clinging to the fabric, light and compelling. It doesn’t feel like a loss, waking up to an empty bed. It feels like a privilege, having gone to sleep with Louis in the first place.

Harry’s own thoughts are beginning to rattle him a little. He sits up, shoving the sheet down to the bottom of the bed so he can swing his legs down onto the floor. He doesn’t bother with clothes before wandering out of the bedroom. A drink sounds good right about now. Harry’s got a bottle of red wine waiting for him in the kitchen. Add some blood to that and it sounds like a perfect wake-up drink.

It’s a plan he forgets about the second he steps foot into the kitchen. Louis is there, bathed in the dampened light of the late-afternoon sun. He’s standing at the counter with a cutting board in front of him, chopping vegetables. Harry stops in the doorway, blinking at the sight. He’d thought Louis was gone.

“For a species known to be silent, you’re quite a mouth-breather,” Louis comments. He doesn’t stop chopping, hand fluid and flexible against the knife. It takes a bit of squinting, but Harry recognizes it as one of his kitchen knives. Not one of the ones Louis carries on him, then.

Harry blinks once more before gathering himself and moving forward, into the room properly. “Seems as though I’ll never be able to compare to you, sweetheart.”

Asking what Louis is doing would only draw attention to the fact that he’s still here. Harry refrains, drinking in the sight of him instead. He’s wearing different clothes then he was last night, a loose t-shirt and ill-fitting jeans. They look worn-out but clean. They look like clothes Louis actually owns.

“I’m making breakfast,” Louis announces, ignoring Harry’s comment entirely. He hasn’t looked over his shoulder at Harry once since he arrived. Under other circumstances, Harry might be a little rankled. Here, in his own kitchen, where there’s no one other than the two of them, it feels like trust, and that’s nothing to be annoyed about.

“Okay,” Harry says absently. There’s something so undeniably domestic about it, Louis in his house cooking food. The food itself doesn’t look like anything Harry would eat – actually, the food doesn’t look edible in the first place – but Louis is still here, using Harry’s kitchen when he could be anywhere else. When he has a pattern of being anywhere else.

“I’m not giving you any,” Louis tells him. The audacity of it makes Harry’s head spin a little, and abruptly he’s had enough of being easy-going. He’s not easy-going. Whenever Harry’s thought of himself as easy-going in the past, it’s been a lie. Now is no different.

He stalks his way over to the stove, caging Louis against it with an arm braced on either side of his body. He’s careful to leave only their arms brushing, enough space between the rest of their bodies that the pounding of Louis’ blood isn’t quite as obvious. Doesn’t call to him quite as much.

“Why are you here, Louis?” he asks, staring down at the back of Louis’ neck. It wouldn’t take much to have it bared to him. Louis being here _means something_ , and Harry is determined to make him say it out loud.

“To eat all your food,” Louis replies. The answer comes out of him so quickly Harry suspects that he must have had it prepared for a long time.

It’s also a lie. Standing this close, there’s no mistaking the way Louis’ heartbeat ticks upwards for several seconds before returning back to normal. It’s a textbook indicator of untruthfulness. 

“Alright,” Harry murmurs. “I could go for a bite, myself.”

As much as he wants to, he doesn’t reach up to stroke the pad of his thumb across the pulse point in Louis’ throat. It doesn’t matter, though – his meaning doesn’t get lost. Louis shivers, goosebumps prickling up on his arms. Harry watches them form, fascinated.

“You can’t have that,” Louis says sharply. He drops the knife onto the countertop with a clatter, spinning around in the circle of Harry’s arms and planting his hands against his chest. Harry braces himself, expecting to get shoved away.

Louis doesn’t, though, warm hands pressed against Harry’s bare skin. He looks so good like this, like a version of himself that he’s not trying to hide behind. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been more attracted to Louis than he is right now, including that first night in the club.

“I know,” Harry says. He drops his arms from the counter, letting them hang at his sides. “Not yet, anyway. I’ll give it to you when you ask me for it.”

Louis sucks on his bottom lip, drawing Harry’s attention down to his mouth. His beautiful, perfect mouth. “That’s never going to happen,” he whispers.

Harry doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t think saying that is going to get him anywhere, though. He says nothing instead, watching Louis watch him. Tension rises in the air between them, so thick it’s almost palatable. 

After a minute, Louis is the one who breaks the quiet. “We can have sex again. One more time.”

One more time is never going to be enough. Harry thinks they’re both aware of that. If it’s what Louis needs to say in order for this to happen, though, he’ll take it. He cradles Louis’ face between his hands and kisses him, stooping down a little to make it slow and wet. It’s a soft, sensual kiss. Quickly, it becomes apparent that Louis isn’t having any of that, biting at Harry’s bottom lip, forcing him to turn it into something more vicious and bruising.

Fine. If he wants it rough, Harry can give it to him rough. He breaks away from the kiss, yanking Louis towards him and spinning him around so he can shove him facedown across the table. Louis doesn’t try to resist, a sure sign that he’s letting Harry do it. Harry may be physically stronger, given his species, but that’s never stopped Louis from outwitting him.

“Stay,” he says, even though Louis isn’t struggling. He’s having a hard time holding it together with Louis underneath him like this, picture perfect arse swaying slowly against his hardening cock. All of his instincts are trying to come out and take over. Harry is tired of trying to suppress them.

“You can play pretend all you want,” Harry starts, smacking Louis’ arse once, short and hard, to get him to stop moving. “But at the end of the day you want me just as much as I want you, and we both know it.”

Louis makes a soft, wounded noise. He presses his hips back against Harry’s body, seeking out the contact. He’s unbearably attractive in his too-big jeans and threadbare shirt, even covered up like he is. Harry folds himself down against Louis’ back, pinning him in place and rubbing his mouth along the tender skin at the nape of Louis’ neck. He can feel the way it makes Louis shiver, squirming underneath him.

“Shut up,” Louis says. It’s not nearly as venomous as he usually says it, a weak shake to his voice that has Harry’s cock throbbing harder. “If you don’t hurry up and fuck me I’m going to leave.”

It seems like an empty threat. Harry doesn’t waste anymore time thinking about it, hooking his thumbs into the waist of Louis’ jeans and dragging them down his hips. They’re so loose he doesn’t even have to unzip them. Underneath them, he’s bare, no pants to speak of.

Christ. Talk about easy access. There’s no way he stayed for any other reason than to have sex. There’s no doubt about it.

Faced with the sight of Louis’ bare, gorgeous arse, Harry comes to the abrupt realization that he has no lube.

“Okay,” Harry says to himself. He stands up straight and puts a hand directly in the center of Louis’ back, keeping him down. “Stay here. Don’t move.”

He hasn’t even taken two steps away before something hits him in the chest. Reflexively, Harry looks down just in time to catch it, his fingers wrapping around a cool bottle.

Lube. It’s lube. Harry breathes out unsteadily, pressing himself back up against Louis’ body quickly. He doesn’t ask where Louis got it from, or if his magic gives him the ability to conjure up sex related items out of thin air. He wants to know, but at the moment he’s got better things to do. Things like coating his fingers in lube and making short work of fingering Louis open. Later, Harry intends to take his time with it, spread Louis open on his fingers until Louis is begging, desperate to come.

For now, this is enough, listening to Louis’ ragged breathing as Harry spreads him apart with three fingers, wide enough and wet enough to get his cock in there. It’s enough. He tugs his fingers out, swiping some excess lube over his cock. Harry stops just short of actually starting to press his cock inside, looking at the picture underneath him. At the flush of Louis’ skin, sweat slick and gorgeous, the smell of his blood racing through his body.

He came back. Louis was gone, and then he came back. Just for this. That means something.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” Harry says without thought. He sees the elbow coming before it can connect and grabs both of Louis’ hands, stopping him in his tracks. Presses them down against the table over Louis’ head, holding them there with one hand and lining his cock back up with the other. He doesn’t remember when he got his own cock out.

“God, just do it,” Louis groans, trying to push back against him. Harry’s got him pinned down too well for that to work, so he mostly just sways his arse against Harry’s cock again. And as nice as that feels, there’s a perfect hole to sink into instead. A hole Harry has only had once before.

Harry practically crushes their bodies together in his quest to ensure that they’re as close as physically possible, grip tight around Louis’ wrists. His vision has gone red and hazy around the edges, and now that he can smell it so easily, the desire to bite has come back in full force. Control is slipping away from him inch by inch. Hanging onto it is hard, and he only manages to keep the last bits of it intact, words starting to slip out of his mouth as he presses the head of his cock against the rim of Louis’ hole.

“I’m so glad you’re mine,” he whispers into the soft skin at the nape of Louis’ neck. Louis smells good here, a bit like sweat and the copper of his blood pounding just beneath the surface. It feels like heaven as his cock slips easily into Louis’ arse, welcoming him.

“’m not,” Louis gasps. His wrists flex against Harry’s hands, the movement almost unconscious. He can’t get away, not when Harry has him trapped so well, but Harry holds on a little harder anyway. Just in case.

Louis is hot and tight on the inside. Harry keeps pushing in, fangs threatening to descend fully and prick against Louis’ skin. It’s sheer willpower that prevents that, the overwhelming need to have Louis beg before Harry ever lets that happen. He’ll have Louis’ blood down his throat soon enough, he knows. Waiting for it feels impossible.

“You are,” Harry tells him sharply. “Wouldn’t have come back if you weren’t, wouldn’t be letting me take you like this right now if you weren’t.”

He can’t control the dark, possessive edge to his tone. It feels like it’s been long enough. Louis will accept it all one day, but Harry’s tired of waiting. He’s so fucking tired of it.

“You’re an easy target,” Louis tells him, out of breath and not nearly as hurtful as he’s intending to be. Harry has a thick skin. He can take whatever this pretty little incubus decides to dish out.

“Yes,” Harry agrees, sliding in a little further. He’s going much slower than necessary, ensuring Louis will feel every last inch of him. Denying it wouldn’t do him any good, not when the truth is so obvious. “I’ll give this to you as much as you need it, baby, keep you full and sated all the goddamn time.”

It’s a promise Harry means every word of. His fangs have fully descended, threatening to scrape against Louis’ skin, split him open in more than one place. Louis clenches down around him, so tight and wet. It feels incredible. “Fuck, baby, you – ”

He doesn’t get anymore words out before Louis is gasping, “Don’t, don’t – ”

Harry strokes his thumb along the tender inside of one of Louis’ wrists, where his bones feel surprisingly fragile. He feels so much easier to break when he’s underneath Harry like this, giving it up to him so willingly. He might not be able to admit it yet, but he’s Harry’s. There’s no way in hell he’s ever given himself to someone like this before.

“I’m not,” Harry says, soothing. He starts to move, keeping his pace slow and steady. Underneath him, Louis moans, high in his throat, and pushes his arse back, trying to get more of it. “You’re going to _beg_ me for it one day, baby, and when that day comes I’m going to have my fill, drink as much of your blood as I want – ”

Louis starts coming. It’s obvious, his noises sweet and demanding even as Harry fucks him. Harry makes a low noise in response, unable to stop himself from going faster, harder, chasing his own orgasm now that Louis has come. It’s not going to take long, not with the way Louis feels, tight and incredible around Harry’s cock.

“Sweetheart,” Harry murmurs, getting a wisp of his breath back enough to breathe the word out against Louis’ skin, “want you to be mine forever, want to keep you – ”

There’s a feeling pulling at Harry’s core. It takes him a minute to realize that it’s Louis’ magic, draining his own. It would be scary if it didn’t feel so good, lighting him up from the inside out. It feels like every molecule of his body is on fire, alight with sensation and pleasure.

He barely hears Louis talking at first, too concentrated on that feeling. Nearly overwhelmed by it.

“I’m scared,” Louis is saying, voice barely more than a whisper, “I’m scared that one day I’m going to let you.”

Harry thrusts in one more time before he starts to come, mouthing restlessly at the back of Louis’ neck. He wants to bite so badly he nearly does it, pulling his fangs back in the nick of time. His orgasm feels earth shattering, like the ground is actually shaking underneath his feet. He doesn’t lose consciousness, but he can’t will his body to work, slumped over Louis’ back heavily.

Something’s wrong. It takes Harry ages to realize that, coming down from his high. The lights have been flickering on and off, but that’s not what it is. No, the problem is that Harry can no longer feel most of his body. The reason that he can’t move is because his limbs have gone numb, dead weight attached to his core that he has no control over.

It doesn’t seem to take Louis much effort to slip out from underneath him, taking the time to fix his clothes along the way. Harry manages to roll over onto his back, mostly on top of the table now, watching blearily as Louis leaves.

The scent of blood lingers in the air. Harry doesn’t realize why until his limbs start working again half an hour later and he finds two drops of drying blood smeared on a wall by the door.

If it’s a message, Harry’s brain is too foggy to figure out what it means. He falls into a deep, dreamless sleep on his sofa, too exhausted to make it back up to his bedroom.

Louis doesn’t show up again for another two weeks. Harry spends each and every day waiting for him to appear with bated breath. Now that he’s had some time and distance since their last encounter, it feels even more like Louis’ exit had been some kind of message. It’s a message he can’t decipher, but it feels like it was supposed to mean something.

When Louis finally makes an appearance, Harry’s not expecting him. He’s been expecting Louis every night at the club, in his flat. Not here, in the middle of a blood-shop at nine o’clock at night, where there are other hungry vampires eyeing him.

This is the last place Louis should be.

Harry doesn’t approach him. It’s clear Louis is here because Harry is, but he’s meandering over by the wine section, back turned to Harry. Approaching him would mean giving in and admitting defeat in a game Harry hadn’t even known they were playing. Instead, he continues his shopping, perusing a shelf of sweets.

For once, one of Harry’s plans involving Louis actually works. After a few more minutes, Louis joins him, standing silently at Harry’s side as he drops a few items in his basket.

They’re not being stared at so much as having furtive glances cast their way. In places like this, with a heavy vampire population, Harry is well known. Well respected – well feared – enough to be able to pretend his privacy is still intact.

“We won’t make it if we try,” Louis says, staring at the rack of goods in front of them. His voice wavers a little, much less confident than he usually sounds. “There’s no point in trying.”

For the first time, he sounds like he wants to be convinced otherwise. Harry’s dull, recycled blood starts picking up its pace, trying to race its way to his heart. Carefully, he reaches out to a grab a random package, placing it neatly into his basket.

“There is a point,” Harry answers quietly. “The point is to be happy, isn’t it?”

Louis breathes out heavily. He’s standing a foot away from Harry, the scent of him intoxicating at such a close distance. Without another word, Louis turns and walks away, exiting the store entirely.

Harry pays the cashier for his items quickly, leaving the shop with two bags swinging from the same hand. He’s expecting Louis to be gone by the time he steps out onto the sidewalk, but Louis is leaning up against a wall, smoking a cigarette.

Harry hadn’t known that he smokes. It’s a little tidbit of knowledge he tucks away for later.

“Would it make you happy?” Louis asks. He’s wearing a pair of sunglasses now, despite the fact that the sun has long since set. It’s making his expression inscrutable. “Being with me.”

This doesn’t feel like a conversation they should be having out in the open like this. Harry’s hackles have already risen. He takes a few steps closer to where Louis is leaning, not crowding him against the wall but close enough that they clearly look like they’re together to any passersby. Getting Louis into a safer space is not an option. Harry can already tell that much.

“I think,” Harry starts quietly, watching as Louis takes another drag on his cigarette, “that you make me feel things I haven’t felt in a very long time, Louis Tomlinson. And I don’t think that’s anything to turn my back on.”

Harry’s ready to double back on his own statement and walk away. Louis knows where he lives, where he works, how to find him even when Harry isn’t at either of those places. If he wants something, he can easily find Harry to get it.

Louis’ voice stops him from leaving, though, short and conversational. “You want to drink from me, though.”

It’s not as though Harry has made any secret of that. Still, he hesitates, bags swinging from two fingers. “Yes.”

If there’s something Louis is getting at with this, Harry isn’t understanding it. He’s going to need Louis to spell it out for him.

“Supposing I don’t want you to do that?” Louis watches him carefully. “Supposing I never want you to do that?”

“I don’t know,” Harry answers honestly. “I’m too old to talk in hypotheticals, Louis. You make me want to say that it won’t be a problem, but I don’t know if that’s the truth or not.”

Louis looks at him for another moment, still wearing that same inscrutable expression. Then he nods once, sharply, and pushes himself off the wall so he can walk away.

For the first time, Harry lets him go without an ounce of regret.

He takes a long, meandering route home, wandering through a few parks along the way. He doesn’t know whether he’s ruined things. Honestly, he doesn’t even know whether there’s enough between them to have ruined.

There’s a spot in his chest that feels like it’s been patched together with glue, the pieces barely holding together. It’s a hard feeling to ignore. It’s also a feeling Harry has no idea what to do with. He doesn’t remember ever having felt this way before.

By the time he makes it back home, the streets have gone quiet. The city’s nightlife has filtered down to merely a few stragglers with the sun almost ready to come up again. The air feels peaceful and still, nothing at all like the inner turmoil Harry is experiencing.

His feelings are distracting him from just about everything else. It’s why he doesn’t notice that’s something amiss while he’s in the lift on the way up to the penthouse.

When the doors ding open, it’s impossible not to see it. It’s faint, no more than six drops, but there’s a trail of blood dotting the foyer.

Louis’ blood. It’s a trail of Louis’ blood. There’s no way Harry could mistake it for anyone else’s.

Harry stops a few feet into his own home, looking at the floor. The droplets are still a bright red, glistening wet. It’s fresh, then. Fresh and unfairly pretty, sitting there against the hardwood like that. Harry isn’t going to taste it, not off the floor, but he’d be lying if he said the thought didn’t cross his mind.

“You know,” Harry starts, voice echoing off the walls, “these little conversations of ours would be much easier if you didn’t keep walking out on the middle of them.”

The scent of Louis’ blood has sharpened all of Harry’s senses. He can hear the soft, even fall of Louis’ footsteps as he approaches, coming in from the living room. Remaining still is hard, takes up every last ounce of Harry’s patience.

“This isn’t a conversation,” Louis says. He’s holding a knife in one hand, the blade of it dangerously sharp and still dripping with blood. Harry can feel his nostrils flare as he takes in the sight, watching the slow slide of blood down the steel. His mouth waters, fangs breaking through his gums and threatening to cut up the inside of his lip. “It’s a negotiation.”

It seems like more of a hostage situation. Harry drags his gaze away from the blade of the knife, up towards Louis’ face. Careful to keep his movements slow, he sets his bags down at his feet. “And what exactly are we negotiating?”

Reigning in all of his instincts is hard with the scent of Louis’ blood thick and cloying in the air. There’s a wound on his arm, a small cut that’s bleeding sluggishly. It’s nowhere near enough to be concerned about. If it was anyone other than Louis, it wouldn’t even be enough to make Harry take pause.

“Your bloodlust,” Louis says. Even with the way he’s bleeding freely in Harry’s home, Harry hadn’t expected that. He blinks slowly, waiting for more. “I’m not going to let you take everything I have.”

Oh, Harry _wants_ to do that. Wants to sink his fangs into Louis’ neck, pierce through his skin and finally be able to taste the sweet rush of victory as Louis’ blood pools into his mouth. There’s a deep, gnawing hunger in his belly from the mere thought of it. Draining Louis until all he can do is blink up at Harry weakly and beg for more.

“I was under the impression that you weren’t going to let me take anything,” Harry notes, his tone mild. He pushes his hands into his jacket pockets to hide the way they’re trembling with need.

Louis switches the knife to his other hand and holds the still-bleeding one up to the light, examining the thin trail of fluid. It hits Harry directly in the gut, overwhelming and sharp. It’s a move directed related to Louis’ species, his uncanny knowledge of how to use Harry’s desires against him. It’s something he’s been careful not to do over the last few weeks, always pulling back at the last second. Having the full force of it in his face now has Harry reeling.

“Well,” Louis says slowly, meeting Harry’s eyes, “Maybe I’ve re-thought some things.”

Blood trickles down the length of Louis’ arm, pooling in his elbow. Harry’s fangs nick his bottom lip as he swallows roughly, curling his fingers into his palms. As much as he’d like to lunge across the distance separating them and take all of that blood for himself, they need to have a conversation first. He needs Louis to know that one time isn’t going to be enough. If he’s giving this to Harry, Harry isn’t going to stop taking it.

The taste of blood in his mouth is what pulls Harry back from the edge. It’s bagged blood, tastes even more recycled now, nothing like the real thing. It’s an odd reminder of what he could have in just a few moments. 

“What kind of things?”

Louis shakes his hand a little. Blood drips off his fingers, splattering against Harry’s floor. None of Louis’ behaviour is anything short of intentional and malicious. He’s trying to do Harry’s head in. He’s doing a pretty good job of it, too.

“Things like allowing you to drink from me,” Louis says crisply, completely at odds with how debauched he looks.

Harry folds his arms across his chest, raising an eyebrow in Louis’ direction. “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific, sweetheart.”

“I’ll allow you to drink from me,” Louis elaborates.

His arm is still extended in a way that makes it impossible to ignore the slow drip of blood. Harry drifts across the floor slowly, taking Louis’ wrist in a gentle hand and pulling it up to his mouth. Hovering above the delicate skin covering Louis’ veins, Harry takes a deep inhale, lifting his eyes to meet Louis’.

“Drink from here, you mean?” Harry murmurs. He can hear the steady tick of Louis’ heartbeat increasing, see the way his skin becomes flush and sleek with arousal. “Sink my teeth into you and take everything I want?”

As he says it, the idea is almost too tempting to resist. It is everything he wants, and it’s nearly being handed to him on a silver platter.

Nearly.

“Yes,” Louis whispers. His expression flickers, delving into something open and honest. 

Harry can’t take having to examine exactly what it means, dropping Louis’ wrist and taking a few steps backwards. It feels like the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. It almost feels like the most rewarding too. Somehow.

“I’ve told you before,” Harry says. “You’re going to ask me for it one day. I wish that day was today, but it’s not.”

This time, Harry is the one to walk away. It doesn’t matter that it’s his own home that he’s walking out of. 

He doesn’t go far, heading down to the club to sit in a booth with a drink. Around him, the music is thumping, almost loud enough to drown out his thoughts. As far as distractions go, it’s enough that he doesn’t get lost in the crushing weight of his own head.

Finishing his single drink takes nearly an hour. During that time, Harry stares blankly out across the crowd, watching as people flirt and mingle and dance. He doesn’t see Louis leave. Considering the amount of times he hasn’t seen Louis come in, that’s not surprising. Accepting that Louis is capable of slipping by unseen is something Harry is still getting used to.

Eventually, Harry’s had enough with the noise. He’s slow as he makes his way back upstairs, taking the stairs instead of the lift. With every floor he puts between him and the club, things get quieter. By the time he’s home, all the noise is gone, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Blood still dots the floor in the foyer. Harry spends a minute looking at it before skirting it entirely. He’ll get someone to clean it up later. Right now, he needs to fall face first into his bed and pretend this entire night never happened.

It’s as good a plan as any. It’s a plan that gets thrown out the window the second Harry steps foot into his bedroom.

In here, the scent of blood is thick and cloying. It’s because Louis is splayed out in the middle of the bed, one arm hanging over the edge, still bleeding. Bleeding more, now. Harry can’t help the sound he makes at the sight, a snarl of frustration and arousal warring against each other.

“You don’t know when to quit, do you,” Harry says, biting the words out around his fangs.

Louis’ head turns to look at him, almost lolling in its complacency. “You’re one to talk.”

Preventing himself from doing something he’ll regret later is quite hard. Harry stays as far away from Louis as he can manage in the confines of the space, fighting the urge to pace back and forth. “I don’t have anything else to say to you right now.”

“That’s alright,” Louis says easily. There’s blood all over Harry’s sheets. Dark as they are, Harry can still see the stains already starting to form. He’ll probably have to burn them. God knows he won’t be able to get any sleep in here with that scent hanging over his head. “I have something to say to you. Please.”

Harry blinks. It feels like he’s dreaming this entire encounter. None of it makes sense. “Please what?”

Louis props himself up on his elbows, moving slowly. Blood smears with every twitch of his body, freshening up the scent all over again. “Please bite me,” he whispers.

It feels like time has slowed down. That or maybe every molecule in Harry’s body has started dying at the same time. Either sounds entirely plausible.

If Harry’s feet weren’t frozen to the floor beneath him, he’d be launching himself at Louis to take him up on the offer. His body wants to accept what Louis is offering without a second thought. Convincing his mind that this needs further discussion is almost impossible.

“Two days ago you didn’t want that,” Harry says. “Hell, two hours ago you didn’t want that.”

“Well, I want it now,” Louis says. Lying in Harry’s bed like this, tangled up in his sheets and bleeding, he looks like something out of a dream. Harry can’t tell whether he’s using a glamour or not, or how much of one he’s using. “Isn’t that enough for you?”

When he puts it like that, it sounds like it should be. Harry’s been a vampire for a long time, and he’s never put this much thought into drinking someone’s blood. He gets consent, always, but it’s something he makes himself do. Not something his instincts demand. It’s enough to kick him into gear, drifting across the floor soundlessly. Harry doesn’t climb onto the bed, dropping down to his knees at the side of it.

Being so close to the blood, to the fresh source of it still oozing out of the shallow cut on Louis’ arm, makes Harry’s mouth water. He bends his head, nuzzling at Louis’ elbow.

There’s a sharp intake of air before Louis whispers, “You can take it.”

Harry lifts his eyes to Louis’ face, knowing that they’ve gone red. His fangs feel sharp and prominent in his mouth, aching to be buried in Louis’ flesh. “This, you mean?” he murmurs, dragging his tongue across a thin line of blood. The taste explodes in his mouth, sharp and addictive. Like nothing he’s ever tasted before.

Louis’ heartbeat is loud in his ears, erratic and fast. His breathing is ragged, like that of a scared animal. There’s nothing in his face that looks like fear, though. Any fear-scent he might have is overpowered by the scent of arousal, warm and obvious.

“Yes,” Louis whispers. His arm shifts in Harry’s hold, but he’s not pulling it away. He’s reaching out to yank Harry up onto the bed with him.

Harry goes easily, already hungry for more of it. He leans over Louis, pinning him in place, gaze still fixed on Louis’ bloody arm. “Is it mine, sweetheart?” Harry asks, tracing a line through the blood. It’s a question he asks almost unconsciously.

Immediately, Louis scowls, twisting a little underneath Harry’s weight. “It’s mine,” he snaps. “I’m giving it to you once. It doesn’t make me yours.”

There’s a tremor in his voice that belays his words. Harry doesn’t believe him. He’s pretty sure Louis knows it.

It’s as much of a guarantee Harry is going to get from him. And with Louis’ blood directly in his face like this, there’s no way Harry can deny himself any longer.

“It’s mine,” Harry whispers to himself, and bites.

Louis’ flesh gives easily under the sharp press of Harry’s fangs. Louis lets out a sharp noise, high-pitched and entirely honest. Hot blood rushes into Harry’s mouth, bittersweet. Harry drinks it down eagerly, eyes falling closed for a brief second. Everything feels brighter, more real. Louis’ skin feels soft against his cheek, overheated. It’s Louis’ wrist he’s bit into, tearing apart the thin skin there, and the muscles in his forearm jump against Harry’s cheek.

He’s never tasted blood like this before. It must be directly related to Louis’ species, Harry thinks hazily. He doesn’t understand why their kinds have been avoiding each other for so long when Louis tastes this good.

Before he can get completely lost in the addictive pull of it, Harry retracts his teeth, wiping his mouth off carelessly against the back of his hand. He can’t bring himself to pull away entirely, nuzzling at Louis’ fragile skin.

“You’re entirely too obstinate sometimes, sweetheart,” he murmurs, tongue darting out to catch a stray drop of blood before it can slide off Louis’ body. 

Louis’ face is flushed, eyes glassy. There’s sweat beading in the hollow of his throat that Harry’s very tempted by. “Please,” Louis whispers again. It could be a ploy. It’s probably a ploy.

Harry takes his time before giving into it, lapping up the rest of the blood from Louis’ arm. He drags his tongue up the flesh slowly, feeling goosebumps awaken under his touch. It doesn’t do much to clean Louis’ skin, but that’s not the point. By the time he reaches the crook of Louis’ elbow, Louis is shivering, whispering half-finished thoughts into the air.

It’s exactly as Harry thought it would be. There’s no longer any doubt that Louis likes it.

“You taste,” Harry says, laying a gentle hand against Louis’ throat, covering the exact spot he intends to bite next, “like summer and sex.”

Heat. It might be heat, the word Harry is looking for.

“I’m going to bite you here,” Harry tells Louis, stroking the pad of his thumb across the spot he intends to bite, “and I’m going to take everything I want from you. This is your last chance to back out.”

If Harry was a better person – or maybe just a more patient one – he’d explain exactly what he means by that. That he means to have Louis and never let him go. That this won’t be the last time he has Louis’ blood. That taking this will make him even more determined to have Louis in every conceivable way from now on.

He’s pretty sure Louis knows all that.

“You’re so fucking slow,” Louis snarls out, starting to struggle. With the taste of his blood still on Harry’s tongue, it takes no effort to hold him in place. “Like I couldn’t fight you off – ”

It’s enough of an agreement that Harry doesn’t need to wait to hear the rest. He surges down and sinks his teeth into Louis’ throat. Flesh rips apart under his fangs, the hot rush of blood surging into Harry’s waiting mouth. Louis tastes even better here, where the thrum of his pulse is hectic and alive.

“Oh,” Louis moans, high-pitched and breathy. His body jerks at the force of Harry’s bite, nearly thrashing. Harry makes a low, deep noise, shoving an arm down against Louis’ shoulder and pressing him into the bed. Every second of it appeals to his most base desires – holding Louis down and taking what he wants. The scent of sex floods the air, rich and heady. Harry barely realizes what he’s doing as he slips his hand down the front of Louis’ trackies, curling his fingers around Louis’ cock.

Louis is hard. It’s something Harry hadn’t even thought to consider. Everyone he’s drank from since he was a fledgling has been willing and into it. It’s something he hasn’t had to think about for a long time, whether the bite would turn on a partner. Those opposed to it don’t usually hang around Harry’s club.

The obvious state of Louis’ arousal cements things in Harry’s admittedly hazy brain. It proves their compatibility. There’s no way Louis will be able to deny it after this.

It doesn’t take much for Louis to come. Harry has barely started stroking him before Louis is spilling across his fingers, filthy and wet. The surprise of makes Harry’s teeth sink in deeper, harder. The taste of Louis’ blood makes his head spin, better than anything else he’s ever had.

Eventually, Harry’s had enough. For now, at least. He pulls his teeth out of Louis’ flesh but doesn’t move back, breathing heavily into the crook of Louis’ neck. Every molecule of Harry’s body feels like it’s been lit on fire, the most alive he’s ever felt. His fingertips are trembling where they’re pressed against Louis’ skin.

“Hey,” Louis whispers. His voice sounds weak and shaky, appealing to every last one of Harry’s predatory instincts. Harry raises his head a little, knowing that his eyes are still red with bloodlust. That his mouth must still be smeared wet. “This doesn’t make you right all the time.”

The world spins in a flash of muted colours. Before Harry can even breathe properly, he finds himself on his back with Louis sat neatly on his thighs. Their clothes are gone. It must be Louis’ magic. Harry’s brain is too caught up in the euphoria of feeding to be able to figure out any of it. His body feels heavy and sluggish, nowhere near any of his usual speed. He can’t do anything but lie there and stare as Louis slithers his way down Harry’s body, until he can put his mouth on Harry’s cock.

The euphoria Harry felt from drinking Louis’ blood doubles. Louis’ mouth is hot and wet, and he knows exactly what he’s doing, sucking Harry all the way down in no time. Harry’s head falls back against the tangled sheets, breathing through his mouth as he struggles to keep himself under control. To keep himself from coming long enough to enjoy this.

It’s too good. The thought of how many other people Louis has done this with slithers into Harry’s mind, impossible to ignore. Harry’s possessive by nature, but the thought of it has his limbs aching, burning with equal parts resentment and need. Knowing that it’s Louis’ nature doesn’t do anything to appease him.

Harry’s reacting to everything on instinct as he fists his hand in Louis’ hair and pulls him off. The look on Louis’ face is nothing short of sinful, mouth full and wet, so obscene the sight of it alone is nearly enough to make Harry come.

“Pretty fucking boy,” Harry murmurs to himself, pulling Louis’ head back further to expose his neck. The bite mark is still bleeding sluggishly, thin trickles of red inching down to pool in his collarbone. The sight of it soothes something deep in Harry’s soul. “You’re mine now, sweetheart. Gave yourself to me _willingly_.”

Louis’ mouth falls open, the wet pink of his tongue flashing. Probably to object. Harry doesn’t care to hear it. He uses his grip on Louis’ hair to yank him up, turning them in the same breath so he’s on top, pinning Louis down. Louis feels right there, like he belongs. Like he should never be anywhere else.

“You know I’m never going to let you go,” Harry says, tugging Louis’ thighs apart and slotting himself down in between them, his hips already starting a heavy grind. It barely takes any effort to get their cocks to line up, friction building up in his spine at how good it feels. Belatedly, Harry realizes that he’s got both of Louis’ wrists pinned above his head, holding him in place.

The threads of their magics are binding themselves together. Harry can feel it, the dark pressure of it. They’ll be intertwined after this, no way for Louis to deny it any longer. 

“You take liberties – ” Louis gasps, hips twisting against the roll of Harry’s, wetness on his eyelashes, a beautiful flush in his cheeks, “Thing I don’t – ”

“Things you want,” Harry interrupts, bending his head to say the words into Louis’ mouth. There’s influence colouring his voice that he can’t pull back. That he doesn’t want to pull back. “How many times are you going to lie to yourself, baby? Pretend that you couldn’t have gotten out of here a thousand times and left me in your dust. You know how much you’re capable of.”

Louis falls silent, eyes sliding closed. He arches up just as Harry grinds down, pleasure so intense Harry can barely breathe. He wants more. He wants to sink his teeth back into Louis’ neck, get another taste of his blood.

When Louis opens his eyes again, a mere second later, they’re an electric blue, so vivid his magic must be overwhelming him. The air around them feels scorching and tense.

“Please,” he whispers, one hand cupping Harry’s jaw, the other digging into his back, “bite me again.”

Once might have been a mistake. There’s no mistaking him asking twice, though. Harry’s eyes are glowing, so red it feels like Louis’ blood might start leaking from his pores at any second. Harry’s never felt anything like this before. Nothing that even came close.

Harry’s fangs sink into the delicate skin of Louis’ neck the second he puts it on display. This time, he topples completely into the bliss of it, so overwhelmed his brain shuts off.

When Harry wakes, fully and completely for the first time in hours, Louis is still there. He’s still asleep, naked and curled into the lukewarm comfort of Harry’s body, looking as though he’s at peace. There’s traces of dried blood along his jawline, the curve of his neck, the inside of his elbow. All the places Harry bit him before their night was through.

Every inch of him looks like he belongs to Harry. It satisfies something deep in Harry’s soul, more soothed than he can ever remember feeling. The taste of Louis’ blood is still thick in his mouth, promising him things Louis’ tongue never has.

This changes everything. Louis’ sharp, clever tongue will never be able to take back what he gave Harry last night. Harry knows, more than ever, what his destiny looks like. And now he knows what his destiny looks like in the weak light of morning.

Louis stirs, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. He looks vulnerable in this light. Truly vulnerable, not like that act he had on the first night they met.

“Sleep, little one,” Harry murmurs, watching as Louis’ features relax back into unconsciousness. 

This boy isn’t vulnerable. This boy is going to take every last thing Harry has, and Harry is going to let him.


	2. Epilogue

For a second, all the admission does is cause Louis to stare at him with wide, startled eyes. Then, just when Harry thinks he’s not going to respond, he starts unbuttoning his shirt.

Button. By. Button.

“Get out,” Harry says abruptly, not taking his eyes off the skin Louis is exposing. His security doesn’t even question it, shuffling out quickly. Harry doesn’t pay them much mind, drinking in every inch of flesh as it becomes bared. His fangs descend into his mouth, nearly pricking his gums, and he wants to _feed_.

Louis is down to the last button now and he still hasn’t said anything, eyes gone cloudy blue and quick, pink little tongue darting out to lick at his bottom lip as he shrugs out of his shirt, letting the material pool onto the floor at his feet carelessly.

“Pretty boy,” Harry murmurs, closing the distance between them and popping the button on Louis’ jeans before he even gets the chance to, walking him backwards until they hit a wall. “Do something nice for you and you start losing your clothes without me even having to ask. Like to fight me every step of the way but I do something you like and I don’t even have to try anymore.”

“Shut up,” Louis says. The words come out more like a snarl, and suddenly, abruptly, Harry is aware that it’s been almost forty-eight hours since they’ve had sex.

That won’t do.

“You gonna make me?” Harry asks, catching Louis’ mouth in a rough kiss and plunging his hand down Louis’ pants. Doesn’t let his fangs prick Louis’ flesh, not yet. Not until Louis asks for it.

Begs for it.

“Don’t make me change my mind,” Louis says, breathless and turned on, arching up as Harry’s fingers close around his cock. “You know I’ll walk away right now.”

Louis’ cock says he won’t, hard and already leaking in Harry’s fist. More than that, though, Louis must be _hungry_. Harry knows he is, aches for the taste of Louis’ blood sliding down his throat, and he’ll fuck Louis up against this wall if that’s what it takes to get it.

“But how are you gonna get your fix if you do that?” Harry asks, dropping his voice to that low register that never fails to make Louis shiver.

It doesn’t this time, either. “Must be hungry, baby, haven’t fed in so long. You want me to make you come?”

All he can smell is Louis, the blood rich scent of him pounding through Harry’s entire body. Half-naked in front of him, every inch of him undisputedly Harry’s, and he still won’t fucking admit it. Won’t admit that he needs Harry just as much as Harry needs him, that the reason he keeps coming back here is because he’s just as addicted to Harry as Harry is to him.

They’re standing so close Harry can barely see the slow drag of Louis’ tongue across his bottom lip. “That’s not exactly true,” Louis murmurs, and for a second, just for a split second, Harry sees red.

Louis isn’t _allowed_ to feed off of someone else. Not now, not after Harry’s put so much work into this relationship. Not when Louis is _his_.

Harry would rip the head off anyone who tried to touch Louis the way he does, and they both know it.

“There better be an explanation for that sentence,” Harry grinds out, tightening his fingers around Louis’ cock. It must be at least a little bit painful but all Louis does is blink slowly, lashes heavy against his cheeks.

“Incubus,” Louis reminds him. “If I’m close enough I can feel it whenever you’re thinking sex thoughts about me. And you think sex thoughts about me a lot.”

Oh. Harry relaxes. He does think sex thoughts about Louis a lot, but in his defense Harry has a lot of long, boring meetings and daydreaming about sinking his teeth into Louis’ arse is much more entertaining than actually paying attention.

“I want to drain you dry,” Harry says, dipping his head to say the words directly into Louis’ ear. “Bleed you until you can barely move and the only thing I can taste is you. How does that sound to you?”

“Sounds like you’re pretending you’re a serial killer again,” Louis says, tipping his head up to give Harry better access to his neck, to his jugular. 

When they’re this close, the only thing Harry can smell is Louis’ blood. He can hear it, too, can almost see it racing through Louis’ veins, keeping him alive the same way it keeps Harry alive. If Louis ever tried to run from him now the only way he would have any success would be to never stop running. Harry would chase him to the ends of the Earth and back again. There’s no doubt in his mind.

“You know what I think?” Harry asks, dragging his tongue across Louis’ neck, getting his skin wet and ready. “I think you know that I can give you everything you need, but you just don’t want to admit it. Why do you think that is, sweetheart?”

There’s no mistaking Louis’ shiver, not with the way he’s so warm and willing in Harry’s arms. Harry’s tired of the constant fighting, of having to beg and plead for every scrap Louis gives him, but he’d do it forever for this feeling. The satisfaction of knowing he’s right.

“Shut up,” Louis snarls. It’s the weakest snarl Harry has ever heard him make, and he’s heard a lot of them. The only thing it does is prove to him that he’s on the right path.

“Sure,” Harry agrees placidly, beginning to stroke Louis’ cock slowly, gently. The touch is so light it’s barely even there. A sweet, simple reminder of exactly how good Harry can make him feel. “Tell me about how you feel, baby.”

The compulsion in his voice is strong. Harry doesn’t bother trying to hold it back, not anymore. It doesn’t affect Louis the same way it does anyone else. Louis can resist it. He has to put some effort into it, but he can resist it. He usually does.

“I feel,” Louis says. His voice cracks in the middle, alluring and breathy. It doesn’t sound like a trick. It doesn’t feel like a trick when he curls his fingers around Harry’s wrist, holding him. “Please.”

It’s not demanding. In the span of three seconds, Louis has lost all the fight he’d barged in here with. He’s asking for something Harry already wants to give him. He doesn’t need to be specific about it for Harry to oblige.

“Okay,” Harry says. It feels like there’s no more air left in his lungs. “Yes, sweetheart.”

He’s not gentle about it as he shoves Louis backwards, until he’s pressed up against the wall. Harry’s brain is consumed with need, both for blood and sex, and he has Louis right here to give it to him. Right here where they can both get everything they need.

“Don’t get distracted,” Louis says, breathless. Harry blinks, and Louis is entirely naked, dangling a bottle of lube between two fingers. It’s the bottle from Harry’s bedroom, the one he made use of just this morning.

If Harry is distracted, it’s Louis’ own fault. He hitches Louis up, pinning him against the wall harder. Louis’ jugular is throbbing, attractive and pretty. Harry fists a hand in Louis’ hair to drag his head back, exposing that vein, and bites down.

Blood spills out across Harry’s tongue, intoxicating and rich. Above him, Louis lets out a low, whimpering noise, thighs flexing against Harry’s hips as he struggles. It’s not a struggle to get away. If he wanted to, he could have been gone before Harry even got him up against the wall. The struggle is just for show, something meant to appease Harry’s instincts. To make Harry feel like he’s _earned_ this.

Sweet little incubus trying to give Harry everything he needs. It’d be a much more believable act if his cock wasn’t weeping against Harry’s bare stomach, where his shirt has ridden up. Harry knows Louis’ noises. He knows what it sounds like when Louis is going to come.

Louis is going to come. Just from the pressure of Harry’s body against his cock and his fangs buried in his neck. Harry slides his free hand down to press against Louis’ cock, give him something to move against as he gets lost in the haze of blood. It’s all he does, and that’s all Louis needs, making louder noises as he orgasms against Harry’s hand.

Harry’s not full. He detracts his teeth from Louis’ neck anyway, pulling back so he can enjoy the look on Louis’ face. That gorgeous, _just had an orgasm so good I can’t feel my toes_ look.

“Good boy,” Harry murmurs. He can feel blood dripping down his chin, the way his eyes have gone red around the edges. He’s not done yet. Not by a long shot. “You want more?”

Louis has to say yes. He has to ask for it. Harry’s self-control has been slipping lately, but not enough that he won’t make Louis ask for it. One orgasm isn’t enough to have sated Louis’ hunger. That’s something Harry knows for certain. 

Slowly, Louis swipes his tongue along his bottom lip, leaving it wet and glistening. Harry’s cock throbs accordingly, where it’s still tucked away in his trousers. The taste of Louis’ blood is lingering in his mouth, so sweet Harry could get off on that alone.

“Yes,” Louis whispers. His face is as open as Harry has ever seen it, as honest. It’s something that needs a reward, so Harry gives it to him, uncapping the lube and pouring a liberal amount over his fingers. So much that it drips down his wrist and onto the floor beneath their feet. “Please.”

Harry can’t resist the need to kiss him anymore. It’s easy with the way his right hand is still tangled in Louis’ hair, holding him still. Louis doesn’t flinch away from it, despite the blood on Harry’s face, letting Harry lick his way into his mouth. The way he sucks on Harry’s tongue is nothing short of obscene, wicked and cruel, and it’s something he only does for Harry. Harry has to believe that.

He pushes two fingers into Louis’ arse without warning. They slide in easily, no resistance, just like Harry had known there would be. His head spins from easy it is, getting Louis to open up. He still hasn’t figured out whether it’s Louis’ magic or if he fingers himself before coming here. Asking would be a guaranteed way to get a knife in the ribs.

“Christ, this hole,” Harry says into Louis’ mouth, spreading his fingers apart and searching for Louis’ prostate. It doesn’t take much effort to find it, relishing in the way Louis moans and clenches down around them. “Love the way you feel.”

It’s a little too close to revealing his actual feelings. Harry would do it in a heartbeat if he thought Louis wouldn’t try to kill him for it. This kind of compliment is the closest he can get. For now, at least.

“More,” Louis demands, shifting his weight and rocking his hips down against Harry’s hand. Harry doesn’t waste any time obliging him, sinking in a third finger beside the first two. Louis probably doesn’t even need this much prep, but Harry’s not going to be the one to say that. Not when everything feels this good. Not when Louis responds this beautifully.

Almost before Harry has even spread his fingers apart, Louis’ fingernails are digging into his back, demanding breathlessly, “’s enough, fuck me, c’mon – ”

One day, Harry will be able to resist that particular demand. When he’s had more time to get used to it, maybe. Today is not that day, though. He slides his fingers out, swiping excess lube across his cock quickly, and pulls Louis up off his feet entirely. This position appeals to Harry’s instincts, his prey captured with nowhere to go, between Harry and a wall. Any thoughts he had of making Louis work for it slides out of his mind the second Louis’ legs wrap around his back.

Louis’ breathing is erratic and choppy, head thrown back against the wall, exposing the smattering of bite marks on his neck. He could heal them himself, Harry knows. The fact that he doesn’t, that he leaves them there because he knows Harry likes looking at them – 

Gravity is truly a blessing as Harry’s cock sinks into Louis’ hole, pulling him down nearly as much as Harry’s hands are. Louis makes a half-shocked noise in the back of his throat at the punch of it, lips parting as he struggles for air. Harry’s in a good mood, has been since the second Louis walked through his office door, but not so good that he’ll allow Louis the space to catch his breath. He sinks in to the hilt, pausing only for a second before starting up a quick and brutal rhythm.

“Fuck,” Louis says on half a breath, clawing at Harry’s back. There are tears on his eyelashes and a quick, stammering pulse in his throat. Harry wants to bite at it, snap Louis’ skin open and drink all he has to give.

“Yes, sweetheart,” Harry says, holding Louis up with no effort, fucking him quicker, harder. “Come for me, little one. Show me how much you need it.”

Dark traces of magic edge their way into Harry’s voice. He rocks Louis up against the wall, bruising him as his hips fuck in hard and efficient, making Louis feel every inch of him. Like it was a command, Louis does, squeezing down tight around Harry’s cock as he comes. It’s a beautiful, vicious thing, something Harry usually tries to watch every second of. Right now, he can’t stop himself from bending his head to suck a mark into Louis’ throat, deep and dark.

Under his skin, Louis’ blood thrums, alive and pulsing. Harry hasn’t stopped wanting it any. He gives in to the desire, fangs sharp as they pierce Louis’ skin. Louis cries out, still coming, pretty boy all wrapped up in Harry’s arms.

The familiar taste of Louis’ blood is enough to send Harry over the edge. He comes with his teeth still buried in Louis’ throat, taking everything he has to offer. Everything he’s offered Harry a thousand times over already.

Harry will never tire of taking it.

**Author's Note:**

> [My tumblr](http://crazyupsetter.tumblr.com/)


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